


How To Marry A Millionaire Malfoy

by Stargazing121



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comedy, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Flirting, Innuendo, Love, Love Stories, Magic, Marriage, Marriage Contracts, Marriage of Convenience, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-06-06 08:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 62,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15190946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargazing121/pseuds/Stargazing121
Summary: Draco saunters back into Hermione’s life and within two days he’s asking her to marry him. A 'business proposition’ is what he calls it; a marriage of convenience which will benefit them both financially and socially. But can Hermione keep ignoring the smouldering looks her new husband keeps giving her? Or the way her heart beats faster every time she looks at him.“I have a business proposition for you,” Draco said and flashed her a wide grin. “It’s a lucrative deal, and would be mutually satisfying for both of us. Hermione,” he paused for effect, “I intend to marry you.”Hermione’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open as she stared into his smirking, but perfectly serious, face.





	1. The One Where Draco Discovers Mr Darcy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, truly. You’ve been amazing, and this story wouldn’t be the same without the reader participation.   
> With the invaluable assistance of sunshine katz, these earlier chapters are being edited and expanded. Any mistakes remaining are my own. And I did slightly die inside when I read some of my previous mistakes. I’ve taken on board many of the questions asked about these beginning chapters, and I hope they now reflect that. All the best, Lady Orez/ stargazing121
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I just like to muck about with Draco.

“I have a business proposition for you,” Draco said, and flashed her a wide grin. “It’s a lucrative deal, and would be mutually _satisfying_ for both of us. Hermione,” he paused for effect, “I intend to marry you.”

         Hermione’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open as she stared into his smirking, but perfectly serious, face.

~~~

         _Earlier That Week_

 

Hermione could remember the exact moment that Draco Malfoy walked into her small shop in Diagon Alley, and back into her life. It had been a Tuesday around lunch time, and the shop was empty, which she begrudgingly admitted was its usual state. The only sound was the scratching of her quill, as she stood behind the counter and scribbled down notes for her debut novel.

         Then the bell above the door gave a feeble ring and she looked up to see Draco Malfoy stepping over the threshold and into her shop. She lowered her quill and reached for her wand, which was hidden under the counter. _Just in case_.

         Malfoy paused and looked about, taking in the large wooden shelves crammed with paperbacks and threadbare red carpet. Then his piercing eyes settled on her.

         “Hello, Granger,” he said and walked towards her, his long legs eating up the ground between them.

         “Malfoy,” she greeted, nodding her head at him. Her fingers were still wrapped around her wand.

         “I had to see your little shop for myself,” he drawled, and picked up a slim volume from the display on the counter. “Is it true that you only sell Muggle books?”

         “Yes, my shop specialises in Muggle literature and history,” she replied, trying to keep the venom out of her voice. “Can I help you with anything?”

         “No, I’m just browsing for the moment.” He put the book back and gave her a thin smile.

         Hermione could feel her body tensing up, as she watched him, hawk-like, saunter round the shelves apparently in search of a book. But she wouldn’t put it past him to be ‘casing the joint’ for some nefarious reason.

         A few minutes later Malfoy came back to the counter, but now he held a book. He placed it in front of her and she couldn’t help but snort when she read the title. “ _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen. Really Malfoy, did you read the back cover?” she incredulously asked.

         “As a matter of a fact I did,” he said. “And I think this Darcy fellow seems a very maligned bloke.” He paused, and seemed to take in her raised eyebrows. “I mean he can’t help having all that money.” And then he had the audacity to wink at her.

         “Of course, you’d say that,” she muttered, and carefully placed the book into a paper bag. “That will be two Galleons,” and although it pained her to say, she added, “if you please.”

         Draco fished out the coins from inside his robes and placed them, gently, into her outstretched hand. “I’ll let you know how I find Jane Austen’s work,” he said and turned to leave.

         “You really don’t have to,” she quickly assured.

         Draco paused on his way out the shop and gave her a brilliant smile. “Oh, but I do, Granger. I simply cannot get enough of your horrified expression every time you look at me.”

         The bell tinkled once more as he closed the door behind him.

 

         The next day, Draco strutted back into the shop and Hermione burst out laughing when she caught sight of what he was wearing. Gone were his wizard robes to be replaced by a blue double-breasted jacket, a white cravat, knee high socks which were tucked into cream breeches, and bright buckled shoes. He tipped his tall top hat at her in a sign of greeting.

         “What are you wearing?” Hermione managed to say, between her giggles.

         “Why Granger, is this not the height of Muggle fashion? I followed Miss Austen’s description exactly,” Draco said, placing one hand behind his back and one foot forward in a striking pose. With the trousers pulled tightly against his hips, a bulge was created in his groin. A very pronounced bulge, in fact.

         “Yes, at the beginning of the nineteenth century!” she chortled. She was laughing so hard that she developed a stitch. She doubled over, resting her forehead on the open parchment on the counter.

         “So.” He paused. “Muggles don’t wear this now?”

         “No, they don’t,” she said, her face still pressed to the parchment. “Muggles only wear top hats as a costume these days.” Having caught her breath back, she stood up.

         “Err…Granger,” Draco hesitantly said, “you have some ink on your forehead.” He came closer and peered at her. “I think it says ‘throbbing’ backwards?”

         Hermione lifted her hand to her head, then looked down at the wet and, now smudged, parchment on the counter. “Oh dear, I’ll have to rewrite the whole page again.”

         Draco turned his head to the side, so he could read the parchment. “Why are you talking about ‘his throbbing head’? Oh.” He stopped, the realisation dawning on him.

         “Don’t read it!” she cried and grabbed the parchment, hiding it behind her back. 

         “Granger, you saucy minx.” A smirk curled his mouth. “Those were some steamy sentences.” She blushed at his words, and rubbed her hand across her forehead, trying to wipe the ink away. “Stop, stop, Granger,” Draco said and brushed her hand aside. “You’re going to take your eye out. Here, let me.” She watched, almost hypnotised, as his pink tongue darted out and licked his thumb. He grasped her chin, and holding her face still, he lightly smoothed his moist thumb over the ink stain on her forehead. “There,” he said, as he let her go, “it’s gone.”

         “Thanks,” she breathed, feeling more than a little stunned by his actions.

         “Now your face is fixed, well, as fixed as I can make it in this short amount of time,” he drolly said. “I’m going to search for another book.”

        

         As Draco wandered about the shelves, he called out, “I was right about that Darcy chap. Poor sod spent the whole book forking out cash for other people’s mistakes.”

         “Darcy made quite a few errors himself,” Hermione commented, a tad reproachfully.

         “Valid point,” Draco said, sticking his head between a gap in the shelves. “Never moan about a woman when she might be in earshot. Very sloppy work.”

         “One might say that you could be accused of similar sloppiness in the past,” she said and nonchalantly rearranged the display of books on the counter.

         “I was not always, as I am now,” Draco admitted. Reappearing from the shelves with a book. He waved his prise excitedly at her. “ _Love Story_ by Erich Segal. Looks a very light-hearted sort of story.”

         Hermione silently smiled to herself as she bagged the book.

         “What is it, Granger?” he said, peering her. “Have I said something funny? Or are you just laughing at my face?”

         “Just at your clothes, again,” she lied, but continued, “I think you’ll find this book very educational.”     

         “I hardly think a mere Muggle novel will educate me,” Draco said, dismissively. He strode towards the door, his buckled shoes glinting in the candlelight. He paused in the door way, dramatically silhouetted. “By the way, if you need inspiration in your own writing, you are welcome to write about my throbbing head.”

         She had to choke back a retort, as he laughingly shut the door.

 

The next afternoon, it was almost closing time when Draco paid his visit to her shop. The bell gave its usual weak tinkle, as Draco manoeuvred into the shop;sideways, like an overgrown crab. He had to enter sideways because of all the Ice Hockey padding he was wearing.

         He turned and one of his overly large shoulders, knocked over a display of George Orwell’s _1984,_ and scattered the paperbacks over the floor. Draco gave a grunt of annoyance, but kept waddling towards her. He was clinging to the hockey stick for support as he tried to keep his balance on the skates.

         “Oh my, Draco,” Hermione cried, and forgetting herself she rushed towards him. She grasped his arm, which she couldn’t feel under the padding, but she manoeuvred him towards an armchair. Draco, with unaccustomed gracelessness, fell into it, and the hockey stick noisily clattered to the floor. Hermione knelt before him and started loosening the metal skates, her fingers tugging at the stiff straps.

         “Why are you wearing all this padding?” she asked, in total bewilderment, as she pulled one of the skates off his feet.

         “G’ange,” Draco gurgled from behind the gridded helmet. ‘G’ange ou’ ‘ame!” With an effort, he pulled off the helmet and spat out the rubber gum protector. “That’s better,” he said, massaging his face, “I can feel my jaw again.”

         With the helmet off, his bedraggled head looked strangely small alongside his padded body. He was certainly giving her a strange look, a mixture of frustration and, if she wasn’t mistaken, appreciation.

         “Granger, I have a bone to pick with you,” he informed and indignantly ripped off the hockey gloves. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

         “Warn you about what?” she asked, as she leant the hockey skates against the side of the chair.

         “That she dies!” Draco wailed. “How could you let me walk out with that harrowing book? I’ve been up half the night, and then I spent the whole of today finding this Ice Hockey gear.”

         “About that,” Hermione said, standing up and looking down at his traumatised expression, “why are you wearing it?”

         “Because, it’s what that chap wears in _Love Story,_ ” Draco said, as if this made utter sense.

         “Only when he plays hockey. He doesn’t stroll around America in huge sports equipment and ice skates.”

         “I wanted to make sure I got all the Muggle clothing right, I couldn’t make another blunder like yesterday.”

         “My goodness. You idiot. Muggles don’t wear this,” she gestured to the discarded helmet, “all the time.”

         “ _Merlin’s beard_. I can’t work out all this Muggle fashion.” He suddenly clicked his fingers. “I’ve had a great idea. You should take me Muggle clothes shopping.”

         “No, no, absolutely not,” she said, backing away from him, like he was a mad man, which, she considered, he probably was **.**

         “Come on Granger,” he pleaded, “you could do with getting out of this shop anyway. You’re almost as pale as I am.” Draco rolled up the hockey jersey and looked at his watch. “It’s only five o’clock. We have time.”

         “I doubt it, Muggle shops close around now,” Hermione said, not bothering to hide the relief in her voice.

         Draco pulled the jersey over his head and started removing the padding. Soon there was a mountain of padding on the floor. Underneath the padding, Draco was wearing a tight black top, which clung to his abdomen muscles like a second skin. He absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, expertly smoothing back his locks. Hermione felt a great urge to run her fingers through his hair and mess it back up. He’d looked attractive, sitting there with his hair tangled and mussed.

         “If we can’t go shopping.” He spoke slowly as if the idea was forming in his head. “Then why don’t you show me where I could go shopping in Muggle London?”

         “I think not,” she primly replied.

         “Why not? I know you haven’t got any other plans for the rest of the day,” Draco stated, with a perceptiveness that made her blush. “Plus, there is something I want to ask you.”

         “Ask me what?”

         “Just a little business idea.”

         “A business idea?” she blandly repeated.

         “How about this,” Draco said. “You go out with me, show me a bit of Muggle London and listen to what I have to say. And if you don’t like it, I’ll never darken your door again.”

         “All that? And then you’ll leave me alone?”

         “And maybe get a drink with me,” he added.

         “Only one drink.”

         “Done, it’s a deal. Shake on it?” Draco stuck his hand out to her.

         Hermione gave a resigned sigh and took his outstretched hand. The moment her hand was tucked safely in his, Hermione felt a familiar jolt in her belly as Draco started to side-along apparate with her in tow.

         _The bastard,_ she thought as her shop disappeared in a swirl of colour. 


	2. The One Where Draco Malfoy Proposes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited and expanded.

“Right, come on Granger,” Draco said, as they appeared in Muggle London. “Time to go exploring.”

         Hermione clung to him. She was still reeling from the unexpected apparation. She could hear the distant rumble of traffic and the occasional impatient honk of a horn, but the side-street they were in seemed to be deserted.

         “Where are we?” she asked, a little shakenly.

         “Just off Piccadilly.”

         “That was a low trick. Apparating like that,” she said, disgusted.

         He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I don’t play fair Granger,” he stated. “You should know that by now.”

         Hermione glared at his casual expression, creasing her face into a frown. Then, he suddenly smiled at her. “Don’t pull that face,” he said. “It makes you look like a mandrake’s wrinkled arse.”

         Hermione was so taken back by the comparison that Malfoy was able to take her arm and pull her down the street. “I saw this rummy looking watering-hole the other day,” Draco said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “And after five minutes conversing with you  Granger, I feel like I need that drink sooner rather than later.”

         “How do you know anywhere in Muggle London?” she asked in surprise.

         “When I was searching for Muggle clothing,” he explained, and again winked at her. It was disquieting Hermione to have Draco Malfoy wink at her, like he was being pally and flirtatious all at the same time.

         “I can’t believe that you – of all people – came to Muggle London to copy something you read in a romance book,” she said rolling her eyes. She gave a small tug, trying to fruitlessly remove her hand from under his arm. He tightened his hold.

         “Had to, Granger. Bought it from your shop; that makes it special.”

         She sharply turned to look at him. In the dim light of approaching evening, Malfoy’s face was etched in shadows, but there was none of the snide reproach on his face which she had been expecting. Her eyes slowly followed the line of his straight nose and well-shaped mouth, lingering on the slight plumpness of his lower lip.

         “Ah, there it is,” Draco said, stopping and pointed at the opposite side of the road. Hermione looked. Past the line of black cabs and up polished stone steps, there was a glittering sign above a brass door. _Oh dear,_ she thought _. He’s going to get me into so much trouble._

         “Malfoy, please don’t tell me that the ‘rummy looking place’ we’re going to is _The Ritz_!” she hissed, vigorously trying to extricate her arm from his grip.

         “Of course, why else would I have come here.” He glanced at her, his grey eyes pale beneath his lashes. “Relax Granger, I’m sure the Muggles won’t bite.”

         “I’m worried about you, not the Muggles,” she muttered, as he dragged her across the road and towards the famous hotel.

         “What was that Granger, I didn’t catch it?”

         “Never mind,” she said through gritted teeth. They strolled by _The Ritz’s_ uniformed porters and doormen. While they gave her and Draco curious sidelong looks, they were too well trained to pass comment at a woman dressed like Gandalf being escorted by a man wearing tight lycra. _Very_ tight lycra, come to think of it.

        

_The Ritz Hotel_ opened its lavish door in 1906 and was built in the neoclassical style. With vaulted ceilings, gilded mirrors and white marble floors, the hotel reminded Hermione of a childhood trip to the Palace of Versailles.

         Draco assertively guided her through the large atrium and through the set of double doors, entering the opulently decorated hall. Hermione noticed that although he looked like he should have been leaving a gym, no one gave Malfoy a second glance. There was something in his steely eyes and measured walk that gave the impression of wealth.  While this was a Muggle hotel, Draco had the ability to look right at home.

         Soft piano music floated through the hall, the clarity of the notes indicating that the music was live and not a recording. Hermione’s knowledge of Muggle music was a bit rusty, but she thought the melody was a Frank Sinatra cover, but softer and slower. The music jarred with the brisk pace Malfoy had them walking. “This looks a promising spot,” he announced, and stopped outside the hotel’s bar.

         The small bar had an Art-Deco theme, which juxtaposed with the classic style of the hall. Everything was gold, and the bar screamed luxury and wealth in a way which made Hermione feel more out of place then she had in the huge atrium. 

          “May I help you?” a man asked. He was wearing a pressed uniform and was giving her and Malfoy such a scathing look that she was reminded of Professor Snape. This man couldn’t loom, being shorter than she was, but he compensated for his stature with his long thin moustache. The moustache quivered in their direction.

         “We’d like a table,” Malfoy smoothly replied.

         “I’m sorry, Sir,” said the man, but in a way that Hermione knew he really wasn’t sorry. “But the hotel has a strict dress code.”

         “Ah,” Malfoy dramatically sighed. “And I guess we don’t quite meet the cut?”

         “I’m afraid that lycra is strictly prohibited.”

         “Understandable,” Malfoy said. “I guess your older patrons would die of shock at seeing a man in such tight clothing.”

         Hermione swore that the moustache curled into a slight smile. “Quite, Sir.”

         “Keep a table waiting,” he instructed. “We’ll be back momentarily.”

         Before the moustached-man could answer, Malfoy had backed Hermione out of the bar.

 

         Draco stopped and pulled her into an alcove by the bar. Turning to her, Draco gave her a wry smile. “Any ideas in that big brain of yours, Granger?”

         “We could go somewhere else?” she suggested. She was already regretting not making more of a fuss when Malfoy had apparated them here. If she’d been thinking properly, then she would have just hailed a taxi to _The Leaky Cauldron_ , and borrowed the money off the innkeeper, Tom. But, no. Instead she’d let herself get _distracted_.

         “Absolutely not,” Malfoy flatly said. “I’m not leaving my first Muggle bar without having at least one drink. Maybe two.”

         “Fine.” She sighed. She was wandless and stuck in Muggle London with a complete madman, whom she, in all good conscience, couldn’t abandon. Just think of the mess a lost Malfoy would make. She held out her hand. “Give me your wand.”

         “Why?” Malfoy asked, suspiciously. “You’re not going to hex me, are you?”

         “No  I’m not, but please don’t tempt me,” she grumbled. “Give me your wand.”

         Malfoy produced his wand from behind his back. Hermione had no idea where he’d been hiding it. His shorts were tight and left little to the imagination. She hadn’t noticed his wand when she’d been looking at him earlier. Not, that she’d been checking him out. It was just, Malfoy just had the type of bum that you couldn’t help but peek at.

“Here you go,” Draco said, and reverently passed her his wand. “Be gentle, it’s never been handled by a woman before.”

         She glared at him, as she took the wand.

         “You’re reconsidering hexing me aren’t you?” he said with a wink. “Just avoid the hair, that’s all I ask. The rest of me is fine to hex. Well,” he paused and rubbed his chin, “I am rather fond of my nose, try not to hit that either. Then of course there’s my perfectly shaped –”

         “Malfoy,” she snarled, “shut up about your perfect body.”

         “You noticed then.”

         “It won’t be so dammed perfect if you keep talking,” she said. A headache blossomed and started beating a tattoo on her skull. She was sure that a vein in her forehead had started to visibly throb, because Malfoy look one look at her face and abruptly stopped talking.

 

         Hermione closed her eyes and concentrated, picturing how the spell would piece together. She waved the wand. Opening her eyes, she was pleased to see Malfoy’s sporty clothes had melted into a black three-piece suit, with matching black tie and handkerchief.

         “Snappy stuff Granger,” he said, running his hands over the fitted material. “I like how many pockets this Muggle suit has.”

         Hermione waved the wand again, this time over her own body. She felt her robes tighten, the neckline lower and the hem shorten.

         “Nice work,” Draco said. “I never knew you had such a cracking pair of legs.”

         Hermione looked down at her handiwork. Her dull robes had been transfigured into a form fitting blue dress. Perhaps it was the presence of Malfoy, but she hadn’t meant for the dress to fit quite so snugly.

         Draco gave a low whistle. “Where have you been hiding all this?” he said and gestured to all of her. “ _Merlin_ , no wonder Potter and Weasley stuck to you like a couple of limpets.”

         “Are you quite finished,” she icily asked. She tried to keep an expression of cool dislike on her face to hide the way her heart was hammering. She was so used to people complimenting her on her brain or spell work. It was disquieting to have someone compliment her on her appearance. Or maybe it was just because it was Draco Malfoy. The walking innuendo.

         Draco gave her a funny look. “Where are your pockets?”

         “My what?” she asked, startled by the odd question.

         “Your pockets,” he repeated. “I mean, my clothes have so many.”

         “Muggle dresses don’t often have pockets.”

         “That seems silly, where do you put everything?”

         “Well, that’s why men’s clothes have so many pockets,” she said, her tone lightly patronising. “So, us mere females can use them. Now, can we please get that drink, so I can be rid of you?”

“What-what,” the moustached man stuttered, as Hermione and Draco walked back into the bar. “But how did you change so fast? You only just left,”

         “Magic,” Draco said with a wink. “Now, how about that table?”

         The stunned man seated them on one of the golden tables, holding out a faux animal print chair for Hermione. She couldn’t be certain but the man’s moustache seemed to have lost some of its curl.

         “Your waiter will be here momentarily,” he faintly informed them. As he fled their strange company he glanced back, and she saw the look of horrified confusion on his face.

         Malfoy started to snicker, and Hermione kicked him under the table. “Stop laughing,” she snapped. “We’ve basically just broken the law.”

         “The Ministry is hardly going to arrest us for _that_ ,” Draco commented. He gave another laugh. “Could you imagine it though? The whole might of the Ministry down on us., and you, Hermione Granger, caught as the accomplice of Draco Malfoy?”

         She was about to bark a retort at him, when a young waiter arrived holding two leather-bound menus. “Good evening,” the young man smilingly greeted and passed them each a menu. “Can I get some water for the table?”

         “No, no water,” Malfoy said. “Can’t have water contaminating the alcohol.” Then, Malfoy passed back his menu to the waiter, and snatched Hermione’s menu out of her hand. He swiftly flipped it open and addressed the perplexed waiter. “She’ll have the,” Draco ran a finger down the page, “ _Iron Lady_ cocktail. The name reflects her personality,” he murmured, earning a glare from Hermione. “And I will have a measure, actually make it a double, of the Dalmore 40-year-old Astrum whisky. Neat.” He closed the menu with a snap, “Got all that?”

         “Right away Sir,” the waiter said, apparently spurred on by Draco’s efficient ordering style. 

         Once the waiter was out of earshot, Hermione snipped to him, “I’m capable of ordering my own drink.” She picked up the discarded menu. “What is in this _Iron Lady_ cocktail anyway?”

         “Gin and champagne. Hopefully lots of both.”

         “ _Merlin_ ,” she cursed, as she noticed something on the page. “You’ve ordered an eight-hundred-pound drink. That’s,” she paused for a second to do the calculation, “over a hundred and sixty Galleons.”

         “I know,” Malfoy said, helping himself to a cocktail olive. “I almost went for the one-thousand, two-hundred-pound drink, the Dalmore Constellation Collection. But then I remembered I much preferred the taste of the Astrum.”

         She gaped at him, utterly dumbfounded.

         “Why are you looking at me like that,” he said and popped the olive in his mouth.

         “You’ve just spent an entire month’s rent on a drink.”

         “What do you expect,” Draco said and took another olive, “I’m a millionaire.”

         Hermione Granger had always known Malfoy was rich. But she’d never, until now, considered just _how_ rich. “But, how can even _you_ justify spending that amount of Galleons on a single drink.”

         “Easily.”

         The young waiter arrived with their drinks, Hermione’s in a frosted glass and Draco’s whisky in a highball tumbler. The amber liquid didn’t even fill half the glass.

         “Your tiny drink is probably more than our waiter’s whole salary,” Hermione harshly whispered to Malfoy.

         “I’ll give him a big tip,” he said, shrugging.

         Hermione threw up her hands in exasperation. “That’s not the point –”

         “Drink,” he said interrupting her. He pushed the glass towards her, indicating she should try it. She just glared at it, as if the glass was the root of all mercantile evil. “I don’t profess to be a nice person,” he said. His fingers brushed the edge of cut glass. “I’m not someone who would wish for world peace, or a world filled with happiness for all mankind. I’m a selfish bastard, Granger. And I probably always will be. But, I’m not ungracious. So, if you insist on not sampling this lovely drink that has just been made for you, I shall have to –”

         “Have to what?” she snapped.       

         “Then, I shall have to ask you nicely.” He winced, as if the prospect of a polite request was causing him physical pain. “Hermione, please do join me for a drink.”

         She was taken back. “That was positively friendly,” she remarked.

         “I know. Don’t think it wasn’t difficult.”

         She pulled the drink towards her. “What would you wish for?” she asked.

         He looked down at his own drink. The glistening surface of the alcohol reflecting the ceiling lights, looking like tiny fairies caught in amber sap. “Ask me another day.”

         She watched his downcast head, his blond hair falling across his eyes in silky strands. “Can I ask you what you want from me?” she said and took a sip of the drink. She could have moaned. She hated to admit it, but there must be something in this expensive alcohol, because the drink ran like nectar down her throat.

         “Now, that’s something I want to discuss.” Malfoy lifted his head and she watched the lights dance in his eyes. “I have a business proposition for you,” he said and flashed her a wide grin. “It’s a lucrative deal, and would be mutually _satisfying_ for both of us. Hermione,” he paused for effect, “I intend to marry you.”

         Hermione’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open, as she stared into his smirking but perfectly serious face.

        

         She started to laugh. The laugh began as a few giggles, but as the absurdity of Malfoy’s statement sunk in, the laugh evolved into an uncontrollable cackle.

         “Oh my, that is good,” she said, her breathing heavy. “You had me going there for a second.” She picked up her glass and took a long drink of the cocktail.

         Malfoyreclined back in his chair, balancing his arm on the plush armrest. A soft smile lingering on his handsome face.

         He patiently waited until Hermione had lowered her glass and was just swallowing, before adding, “I’m serious Granger. I’m asking you to marry me.”

         Hermione’s eyes watered and her drink caught in her throat. She spluttered, choked and in a magnificent arc she spat her drink into his smirking face.

         The look on Malfoy’s face was worth every penny he’d paid for her drink.

 


	3. The One Where Throbbing Heads Are Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited and expanded.

“Madam, are you alright?” the waiter hurriedly asked. He anxiously hovered over the wet shoulder of Draco Malfoy.

         Hermione gave a pathetic cough, trying to dislodge the rest of her drink. Malfoy wordlessly handed her a cloth napkin. He dabbed at his face with another.

         “She’s fine,” Malfoy reassured the waiter. “The only harm done is to my suit.”

          “Can I get either of you a replacement drink?” the waiter asked, as he took a cloth from his apron and wiped the table down.

         “For her, yes,” Malfoy said. “Perhaps, this time, something fruit and non-alcoholic. I’ll just stick to my slightly mixed whisky.” Hermione blushed when she realised she half coughed over Malfoy’s drink. She opened her mouth to apologise, then remembered who Malfoy was and snapped her mouth shut.

         “Well, you put on quite a show there,” Malfoy commented, as the waiter left. The bar settled down once more, and Hermione could hear the soft piano music floating in through the open door.

         “What do you think you’re playing at?” she said and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Demanding that I marry you. That’s ridiculous.”

         “Hardly ridiculous,” he said back, equally as coldly.

         “Presenting some fabricated rubbish of a business idea, just to get me here and humiliate me.” Hermione went to rise from her chair.

         “Sit down, Granger,” he said, commandingly. She hesitated, her hands gripping the armrest. She glanced into his face. His eyes were the colour of brushed chrome, cool and matte and without a hint of laugher in them. “Granger.” He stopped. “Hermione, this isn’t just some ploy to poke fun at you. I may be many things, but I’m not that spoiled eleven-year-old anymore.”

         She sat back down heavily, and crossed her slim arms. “I don’t have any way of getting home,” she said.

         “I know,” he admitted, ruefully smiling at her.

         “I guess I’m stuck here with you.”

         “No, I promise that once I’ve said my piece I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

         “Fine. Talk.”

 

         Malfoy steepled his fingers, surveying her over the top of his pale digits. “At heart I’m a businessman,” he began, his tone smooth and unhurried. “I’ve spent years crafting my family’s businesses into something for the modern wizarding world. I am not like my father,” he spat, “a fanatic with too much time on his hands. You are someone who wants to change the world for the better.” He spoke this as a statement rather than a question. She silently nodded in the affirmative. “While I can’t say my intentions are as pure as yours –”

         She snorted at that. “I don’t think you’ve had a pure thought in years, Malfoy.”

         “Perhaps,” he conceded, the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. “But I also want things to change. However, given my family’s past – _my past_ – no one would believe that I’m acting in earnest. This is why I need your help.”

         “I fail to understand how marrying me comes into any of this?”

         “In the wizarding London, you are the undisputed Muggleborn princess.” She started to interrupt him at the use of the epithet, but he held up a hand to stop her. “You are,” he assured. “You may not like it, but you are the wizarding poster girl for the Muggles. What I want to do is tap into the Muggle world and bring their products, their inventions to the wizarding community.”

         She frowned. “That sounds fairly exploitative.”

         “Very astute, Granger. I am after all a Malfoy, and what else do we know but to use and abuse.”

         “Oh.”

         “See what I mean? You presume that because of who I am, I can have no good intensions. Not an unjust presumption, I hasten to add.”

        

         Hermione almost jumped out of her chair, when a tall drink was placed in front of her. She’d been so absorbed in Malfoy’s bizarre explanation. Lost in the way his hands twisted when he talked about his father and the subtle curve of his mouth when he looked at her just now. 

         “Thank you,” she absentmindedly said to the retreating waiter.

         “That looks rather tasty,” Malfoy commented, and reached out a hand to snatch a raspberry that perched coquettishly on the glass’s lip. Hermione made an indignant noise as he bit into the juicy berry. “Yum,” he teased. “You should try some, Granger.”

         The drink was so tall that she had to crane her neck to reach the bent paper straw. She sucked and tasted the tangy berry mix. She looked up at Draco, her eyelashes framing her dark eyes. He was watching her. His own mouth was open, as her small mouth pouted around the straw.

         She abruptly stopped drinking and the paper straw tackily stuck to her lips.

         “Do you like it?” he asked, his voice resonating like a tiger’s purr.

         “Yes.” It was a breath, rather than a word.

         “That good?”

         She watched spellbound, as his tongue ran along his lower lip and lingered at the corner of his mouth. She looked away and down at her drink. “You were saying,” she prompted. A bead of condensation dripped down the glass and pooled at the base.

         He cleared his throat. “The wizarding world is lagging behind,” he restarted, “both social and economically. While we have been fighting our wars, the Muggles have invented electronic communication, faster transport and,” he paused to smile, “even things like microwaves.”

         “You’re not telling me you want to change the world one microwave at a time?” she quipped.

         “That is exactly what I want to do,” he enthused and downed the last of his drink in one swallow.

         “You’re utterly bonkers. Why would the wizarding world want things like microwaves when we have magic?”

         “Being the brightest witch of our age, I’m sure that you know how to magically cook and heat up food, so you won’t give yourself botulism or food poisoning. But many of our contemporaries do not. Not everyone will inherit a house elf, or will want to have one,” he added and gave her a pointed look. “There’s a market for Muggle conveniences in our world.”

         “I’m following you so far, but you haven’t got to the marriage part?” she reminded, considering this to be the most important bit of Malfoy’s proposition.

         “With you by my side as my loving wife, no one will question my motives or the validity of my argument. I want to make you my queen on a polycarbonate throne.”

         She suddenly could imagine the distorted scene of her regally sitting on a cloudy plastic throne, surrounded by a phones, televisions and kitchen appliances. It was a sobering thought.

         “Say, for a moment, I believe all this,” she challenged. “What in the world would I get out of marrying you?”

         “Down to negotiations, I like it.” He rubbed his hands together, and in the golden light of the bar he reminded her of some kind of hoarding dragon. “I can make your debts disappear.”

         “Money.” She gave a shallow laugh. “You think you can buy me?”

         “Let me finish,” he said soothingly. “I pay your debts. Your rent. Your overdraft. All so you can keep your Muggle book shop. I know how close Gringotts are to foreclosing on your store.”

         “How do you know that?” she sharply asked.

         “The Malfoy vault is hundreds of years old. The Gringotts Goblins tell me anything I want to know.”

         “But, how can they?”

         “Don’t look so betrayed. You know Goblins have a streak of mischief in them a mile wide,” he said. “As well as this financial contribution, I will also publish your book. You’ll be a bona fide author by the end of the year.”

         She rolled her eyes. “There would be no achievement in just having you throw Galleons at someone to publish my book.”

         “I had a feeling you might say that,” he dryly said. “My counter offer is that I introduce you to publishers. Then the rest is up to you. This way your pride will not be offended.”

         She barked a laugh. “Trust me on this Malfoy, my pride is not the issue in this conversation.”

         “Finally,” he said, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. “I offer you my undying support in whatever charity or cause you want. House elf liberation. Flobber worms equal rights. Even a society for the protection of Hippogriffs.” He winked at her. “And I also will donate one million pounds of my own money.”

         “What?”

         “Which converts into two hundred thousand, eight hundred, three Galleons, three Sickles and twenty-five Knuts.”

         “One million pounds,” she slowly repeated.

         “So, Granger,” he said, taking her small hand in his. “Do you want to become a Malfoy?”

        

         She gave him a quizzical look, then suddenly leant forward and pressed the back of her free hand to his pale forehead. “I’m surprised,” she commented.

         “At what?” he asked, bemused.

         She removed her hand. “You don’t have a fever. I presumed you must be delirious from illness. What else could explain the past few minutes?”

         He laughed. “I’m perfectly healthy, in _every_ way.”

         “Your head doesn’t seem to be functioning normally,” she snapped. 

         “Which head are you talking about? My ‘throbbing’ one?” Her cheeks coloured. “Oh, Granger, I don’t think I’ll ever bore of making you blush,” he said with a low laugh.   

         Hermione tried to mask her embarrassment by having another sip of her drink. From the derogatory pat he gave her hand, she didn’t think it worked.

         “By the way,” he added, massaging his thumb along the back of her hand, “if you ever do need any  _new ideas_ for your novel, I am more than willing to help.” His eyes crinkled, and he flashed his white teeth.

         “If you don’t stop talking right now Malfoy, I’ll chuck this drink at you,” she growled and pulled her hand out of his and laid it, threateningly, on the glass.

         “And ruin this suit further,” he playfully chided.

         “It also will ruin your hair,” she reminded and lifted the almost full glass. 

         His smirk disappeared. “Not the hair,” he moaned, and protectively touched his white blond locks.

         “Don’t mess with me Malfoy, I’ll do it.”

         “Alright, no more talk of ‘throbbing’ heads.”

         “Or anything else ‘throbbing’?”

         “Yes, yes. Merlin, woman, you already know my weak spots.”

         Hermione smugly lowered the glass. He smiled at her. And, to her surprise, she found her own mouth curling in response.

         “You’re single,” he said, “I’m single. _Famously_ so.” He raised a questioning eyebrow. “What have you got to lose?”

         She paused. _What did she have to lose_? Not a relationship. She and Ron had broken up years ago, and the wizards who’d asked her out since seemed more interested in Harry and the downfall of Voldemort than they did her. There were few things more disconcerting for a girl, then having your date ask more about your male best friend then about you. She wouldn’t lose the opinion of the wizarding world.  _If anything_ , she bitterly thought, _they’ll see her as some sort of saint for taking Malfoy under her metaphorical wing_. There might be a lot to gain from an alliance with Malfoy.

         “Hermione, in all seriousness what do you think of my business idea?” he asked, interrupting her dangerous contemplations.

         He was also easy on the eyes. _Too_ easy.

         She took another sip of the drink, hoping the icy liquid would clear her troubled mind. “You certainly are a convincing negotiator,” she admitted. “But I don’t see how this could work? I mean, we don’t exactly get on. And that’s not even mentioning our history. What are you doing?”

         Malfoy had leant forward and was stripping off his jacket. “Giving you a reason.” He undid his shirt cuff and rolled up the material. Then he laid his arm on the table, baring his inner forearm. After all these years, the Dark Mark was no longer pitch black, instead the symbol was white like chalk.

         She jumped when he took her hand, and placed her arm next to his, palm up. She looked down at her own mark, the word just as red as the day it was carved into her.

         “I can read your skin,” he whispered, his eyes lingering on her flesh.

         “I know,” she replied. “You were there.”

         “May I?” He ran a finger along the word, following the scratched letters. “I’m sorry. I truly am sorry. Inadequate, I know, and too late. But I am.”

         There was a ringing in her ears, like a mental alarm bell. The air between them seemed to sizzle. She held her breath, and waited for that familiar feeling of pain, that remembrance of a scream which would irrevocably shatter the freshly ploughed common ground between them.

         “I swear, I’m not lying to you,” he said. He pressed his palm over her scar, pushing his hand into her skin like he was trying to blot out the past.

         She started to breathe again. “Can you let go now?” He loosened his grip and she curled her arm towards her body. “Would you?” She nodded to his marked arm. He got the hint and hurriedly pulled down his sleeve.

         “Sorry,” he said and buttoned his cuff back up. “I’m just not used to women asking me to put my clothes back on.” She laughed, she couldn’t help it, and the tension died. “Come one,” he said, waving at a passing waiter, “let me get you another drink.”

 

         “I kid you not, Granger,” Malfoy said, swirling his third glass of whiskey like a tombola. “When I tried to free her, she turned and said to me,” he pitched his voice high, “‘Mr Malfoy, Sir, if yous is going to free Bibbet, then yous better do it with something better than a sock’.”

         “Did she really sound that snotty?” Hermione asked. Her cheeks felt flushed from the laugher and the alcohol, and a grin seemed to be permanently plastered to her face.

         “Did she ever,” he scoffed. “Bibbet’s known me for longer than I’d care to admit.” He tipped his glass at her. “Don’t you dare tell Potter I copied him. I’d only heard of him freeing an elf, and I didn’t know how to go about it.”

         “Did she take your sock in the end?”

         “No. But I did free her. However, it took a Prada handbag.”

         “No,” she said, slightly slurred. She’d decided to avoid fancy cocktails and had asked for a simple vodka and tonic.

         Her body felt warm, and slightly heavy, as if she was wearing very thick clothing. She wasn’t sure when Malfoy had become such a good story teller. He had a salesman spiel and could wind a tale. He’d already had her in giggles over a recent visit to Trafalgar Square when he’d misunderstood that he was meant to throw coins into the fountain for a wish, and not step into the water and steal the coins. He justified this to the two police officers, by pointing out that if they didn’t want people to retrieve the perfectly usable money, they should put up a sign. Not everyone would understand these Muggle customs.

         “Bibbet stayed on anyway,” Malfoy said. “She works as an organiser at my company. She’s marvellously good at getting people to do overtime. She just stands there, hands on her hips, and stares at them.” His eyebrows went up, as if this was the scariest thing he’d ever encountered. “Have you ever had a house elf silently stare at you? It’s bloody terrifying. She buys Chanel suits. Orders them in from Paris and resizes them. It’s unnerving. She dresses better than my mother.” His face suddenly shadowed with guilt. “Don’t tell my mother I said that. She doesn’t like anyone to be better dressed than her.” He plopped the glass onto the table, and the liquid crawled up the sides of the glass. “You know, Granger. I think I might be a little merry.”

         “I think you might be too,” she said. “Maybe we should have got that water after all.”

         He seemed to take her at her word, because he called out, “Waiter? Could we have some water? My companion just can’t take her drink.”

         “What do you mean I can’t? You’re the one who’s talking about,” she mouthed the words ‘house elves’, “in a Muggle restaurant.”

         “True, true.” Two glasses of water were placed on the table. Malfoy took one and drank half of it in two gulps. “So, what have you been doing with yourself since…?” he trailed off.

         She sipped at her own water. “I have the shop.” She shifted in her seat. “I tried working at the Ministry, but it’s difficult to separate how it was before the war.” She paused on the word ‘war’.

         “I get it.” His brows were drawn in a small frown. He sighed. “After I inherited the business from father, it took me years to cull all the unsavoury aspects. Not that Lucius did much work.” A disparaging grin flickered over his face. “He was _far_ too busy.” She couldn’t miss the sardonic note in his voice. “It’s been getting better. More wizards are willing to work with me, and I have high hopes I can make this Muggle enterprise successful.”

         “Surely there must be other business ventures?” she asked. “Less controversial.”

         “You mean because I’m a pureblood?”

         “In part,” she said. It sounded blunter coming out of his mouth.

         “Course.” He shrugged. “But this is what I want to do. I won’t be put off because of my last name. It’s not expected of me, and that makes me want it more.” He looked into her eyes, held her gaze for just a second too long. “I’ll manage this without your guidance, Granger. I’d just prefer to do this together.”

         She slowly drank her water, playing for time. “I could be a consultant?” she finally suggested.

         He gave a derisive snort. “I considered it, but frankly I need results and I need them fast. You advising me wouldn’t get the same response, or respect, as you marrying me.” He held up a hand, as if to halt her inevitable interruption. “I know it sounds crass, but it’s only so long before someone else thinks up this idea. And I’d much rather you and I were at the helm of this Muggle-Magic venture, rather than some pureblood twit with more money than brains.”

         “And I’m sure the fact that your sales will go up with this ‘marriage’, has nothing to do with it?”

         He gave her a sly smile. “It’s an incentive,” he admitted. “However, Hermione, I’m going to do this, with or without your assistance. I’d just prefer that you were involved. I’m asking for your help; it’s as simple as that.”

         Silence descended over them. She began to pay attention to the chatter and clatter of the bar. She’d been almost oblivious of her surroundings, focused solely on Malfoy since he’d started talking about his madcap idea. _Or was it so mad?_

         He had a point, it was only a matter of time before another Witch or Wizard decided to break into the Muggle market. It would take money, and most of the money belonged to the Slytherins and pureblood families. Her opinion of Malfoy wasn’t that high, but she trusted him to do a better job than some of their other classmates. The thought of someone like Theodore Nott, or the Bulstrode family, exploiting Muggles troubled her.

         “Did you mean it, when you said one million pounds?” she asked.

         Malfoy cocked his head, and smirked. “Yes.” He looked like the cat that had got the cream.

         She straightened her shoulders, sitting a little higher in her seat so she was at Malfoy’s eye level. “To any cause, movement, or charity I want?”

         “Yes.”

         “Even if I set up a society to turn all racing brooms into kindling?”

         He winced. “Yes, even that.”

         “Okay.” She said it a little too fast.

         “Is that a yes?”

          “It’ll be Hermione Granger-Malfoy.” She gave a dramatic shiver. “And certainly not Hermione Malfoy.”

         “Are you sure?” He bit his lip, as if holding back a laugh. “Hermione Malfoy does have a nice ring to it.”

         She ran the name through her head. _Hermione Malfoy, Hermione Malfoy, Hermione ‘I’m a pale blond idiot’ Malfoy._ “No. I don’t think I can tolerate the idea of just being called Malfoy.”

         “At least I’ll still be able to call you Granger.”


	4. The One With A Contract

Draco waved his hand in the air, signalling a waiter.

“What can I do for you Sir?” the waiter asked as he reached their table. 

“Can I have another serviette?” Draco requested. “Incidentally, how much do these lovely napkins cost?”

“Pardon?” the waiter said, baffled.

“These white serviettes,’ Draco held up the napkin he’d used to dry his face.

“I will have to check the price with my manager?”

“Please do.”

The waiter dashed off.

 

“Why are you asking about the serviette?” Hermione questioned, she was as confused as the waiter had looked about Draco’s demand.

“After you spat your drink at me, I’ll be needing a fresh one. Nice shot by the way,” he added, “I won’t be forgetting the sting of gin in my eyes for quite a while.”

“Yes I’m gathering that you used the last napkin,” she cooly said. She still felt a little sore over the drink spluttering incident. “But why do you want to know the price?”

“I want to write on it.”

“Why?”

“Because now that I’ve got you here all pliant and agreeable, I want to settle the terms of our marriage contract.”

“On a napkin. Classy.”

“A silk napkin!”

 

The waiter came back, holding another serviette.

“They cost thirty pounds,” the waiter informed, passing Draco the cloth.

“Fine,” Draco said, unfolding the napkin and spreading it over the table top, “add it to my tab. May I borrow your pen?” He signalled to the note pad and pen in the waiter’s apron pocket.

The man handed over his monogramed pen.

“Thank you kindly,” Draco dismissively replied and started writing on the serviette.

The waiter gave a polite, but bewildered nod and left.

 

“There,” Draco said, turning the serviette around so she could read it. “I believe that is everything we just discussed.”

Hermione carefully studied Draco’s neat script.

 

_Marriage Agreement Between Hermione Jean Granger (Party 1) and Draco_

_Lucius Malfoy (Party 2)._

 

_Party 1 consents to marrying Party 2 in return for: financial aid in Party 1’s business; introduction to relevant publishing houses; donation of one million pounds to cause of Party 1’s choice._

 

“How did you know my middle name is Jean?” She asked, suspiciously looking at him.

“Granger, I know everything about you.”

“I high doubt that,” she scoffed.

“Ok, maybe not everything,” he conceded. “For instance, I don’t know your bra size. But,” he bit his bottom lip as he examined her, “from the look of it I’d say a 34C?”

“Hey,” she yelled, crossing her arms over her chest, “don’t look there!”

“I’m right aren’t I?” he said with a wolfish smile.

 _He was,_ but she wasn’t about to tell him that. She did not want to encourage Malfoy to think about her body any more than he had too.

 

“The contract is a bit vague,” Hermione observed, trying to distract him. “I mean it doesn’t contain any reference to how this marriage,” her voice caught on the word ‘marriage’. She took a steadying breath and continued, “how this marriage will happen, or what’s expected?”

“Okay, tell me what you want to know and I’ll write it down.” He picked up the pen again.

“How long is this marriage going to last?”

“Three years? That should give me just enough time to establish the Muggle market in wizarding London.”

 _Three years,_ she repeated in her head, _married to Draco Malfoy for three whole years. Bloody Hell._

“Fine,” she said, her tone only holding a slight tremor. “How are we going to get divorced?”

“Oh but Granger,” Draco said, his voice feigning hurt, “you’re not already wishing our marriage to be over.”

She gave him a _look_.

“Too soon for jokes?” he said, sheepishly grinning.

“Just a bit,” she snapped.

“Point taken,” Draco assured. “We should divorce amicably. No scandals, just release a press statement saying we’re separating but remain good friends. You’ll, of course, get a hefty settlement-“

“No,” Hermione interrupted, “I don’t want anything else. Just what we’ve agreed so far.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. Hermione got the impression he wasn’t used to people not wanting more from him once they’d got a taste.

“If you’re sure,” Draco said, and scribbled on the serviette. “‘ _After three years, the couple will separate and divorce. An amicable agreement will be arranged. Party 1 wishes to have no settlement. Party 2 thinks that this is stupid, but who is he to judge._ ’” Draco narrated as he wrote.

“Please tell me you haven’t written that last bit,” Hermione exasperatedly asked.

“Maybe,” Draco admitted, stoppering the pen once more.

She rolled her eyes at his smirking expression.

 

“Moving on,” she said. “Where will we live? Because I’m not staying in Malfoy Manor.”

“Don’t worry, I have no desire to live with my parents,” he chuckled. “How about in Muggle London? Sort of keeps in with my reformed image. It will also have the added benefit of pissing off my father.”

She gave a small smile in return.

“What if either of us meet someone else?” she asked, apprehensively.

“Ah, I was wondering when that subject might come up,” Draco dryly commented. “I would prefer my wife, even if she is my fake wife, to be faithful to me.”

“And what about you?” she asked with trepidation.

“I can keep it in my pants if you can.”

“But three years?”

“I may be a Slytherin Sex God,” Draco stated, “but I can handle not dipping my wick for a while. Unless…” then he paused, looking up at her from between his pale lashes. She was startled by the sudden warmth in his eyes.

“Unless what?” she cautiously asked.

“Well unless, you and me,” Draco deliberated, gesturing his hand from himself to her.

Hermione balked, _was Draco truly meaning that her and him have…no the thought was one that she couldn’t think_.

“You get some, I get some,” Draco continued, “it could be _very_ pleasant.”

“No,” she said, “that will not be happening.” She gave a nod, as if trying add some fortitude to her statement.

“Such a shame,” Draco said, and while his tone was light she swore he looked a bit crestfallen. Surly not, Draco couldn’t actually be disappointed…she must be imagining it.

Draco cast his eyes to the heavens and whimsically said, “I’ll just lie back and think of the money I’ll be making. _All alone_.”

 

“I thought you wanted to change the world?” she reminded, trying to get them back on topic or at least off _that_ topic.

“Money first, change the world second. I’m not completely reformed,” he grinned before adding, “although I’m sure your presence will change that.” Draco paused and his grin disappeared, “What about you’re little friends?” 

“Harry and Ron?” she questioned.

“That would be the ones. Do you wish to tell them?”

The word ‘yes’ was about to trot off her tongue, but she hesitated. _Did she really want Harry or more importantly Ron knowing that she was signing her life away to Malfoy, Draco Malfoy of all people?_ She could already practically see Harry’s stunned expression and Ron’s irritable shouts. They’d hunt Draco down and gut him if they knew the truth, she just knew they would. And for some reason the thought of Draco’s entrails being strung from the nearest lamppost genuinely bothered her.

“No,” she considered, “I think we should keep this between us. Just us.”

Draco visibly relaxed, his shoulders sagged and his jaw unclenched. She hadn’t even been aware that he’d tensed up.

“Good,” he murmured, and cocked a smile at her once more.

 

“And what about _us_ …” she trailed off, not knowing how to phrase her next question, particularly as his gaze still held that burning longing.

“What about ‘us’, Granger?”

“How…what about us and physical contact?”

He raised both of his eyebrows at her.

“Are you propositioning me,” he asked with a smirk.

“What!” she cried. “No, absolutely not.”

“ _The lady doth protest too much, methinks_.”

“The lady doesn’t. Anyway the quote goes actually goes, ‘ _methinks the lady doth protest too much_ ’,” she snapped. She took another drink, hoping the cool liquid would sooth her flushed cheeks.

“Fine, fine,” Draco said, holding out his hands palms up, “you’re not asking for sex. I understand.”

“Anyway, back too my point,” she sighed, “I mean physical contact to convince other people. Like hand holding, or-“

“Snogging?”

“I wouldn’t have used the term ‘snogging’ myself, but the principle is the same.”

“How about I put,” Draco continued and started to write, “ _In the course of the three year marriage, both Parties agree to stimulate appropriate physical contact to maintain the image of a happily married couple.”_

“And the fidelity bit,” she reminded.

Draco put his pen to the cloth once more. “‘ _Both Parties agree to remain faithful in the marriage, and will not compromise themselves or the other Party._ ’ Does that reassure you?”

“That is acceptable,” she sighed.

 

It wasn’t acceptable. None of this whole evening was acceptable. But Draco was right about her finances; she’d for sure lose her beloved book shop without fiscal aid. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to rub away the headache that seemed to be blossoming.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked, and she thought she could pick up a trace ofconcern in his tone.

She lowered her hand and examined his face; the face she’d be seeing everyday for the next three years.

It wasn’t a bad face, not by a long way. It was made up of classically handsome features: straight nose; solid chin; sharp cheekbones; strong brow. She cocked her head, studying him from a slight angle. It wasn’t his features that made him attractive to her; what compelled her more was the expression in his eyes.

Draco’s eyes were like the sea; ever-changing in aspect and colour. In a moment his eye colour could shift from ridged iron to splintered slate. Or like now, as he looked at her, they were the colour of the ocean on a sunny day: azure with hints and twinkles of silver. It made her want to dive right in.

“I’ll be fine.” She straighten her shoulders and lifted her head to match his gaze. Draco gave her a suspicious look, but didn’t pass comment. Something she was grateful for.

 

Draco dated, signed and printed his name on the makeshift contract. He swivelled the cloth round and offered her the pen.

“This is it Hermione. Once you sign, I _won’t_ be letting you go,” Draco warned, lowering his tone so only she could hear. His silver eyes changed; the playful twinkle was gone to be replaced with a shimmering fire. With Draco’s heated gaze locked on her, the noise of the bar melted away around them; until Hermione could only heart the patter of her own heart and see the rapid rise and fall of Draco’s chest.

“Would you care to sign?” Draco said, the pen steady in his outstretched hand.

Hermione took the pen, which had a surprising weight to it. She looked down at the contract and at the blank space next to Draco’s name. _Soon to be her name_.

She pressed the pen to the cloth and let it rest on the expensive material. The black ink bled into the white. She signed her name.

The moment she’d finished printing her name, Draco swiftly pulled the cloth out from under her. He blew on her signature, drying the ink. Then neatly folded the serviette and place it in his inside pocket.

 

“Done,” he said, “you’re almost a Malfoy.”

“This isn’t how I imagined I’d get engaged,” she absentmindedly muttered.

“Neither,” he ruefully admitted.

“Would you… would. No it’s stupid,” she said, faltering.

“What is it? You can ask me,” he said, and his tone was so soft that it could have been mistaken for tenderness.

“Could you ask me properly?”

“To what?”

“To marry you that is…” she petered off, but continued, “I’d like one part of this to be normal,” she confessed. To herself she added, _because I’ve never been asked and I would like one man to propose to me properly. Not just because they want something from me or,_ she thought bitterly, _as some stupid afterthought at someone else’s wedding_.

 

Draco beamed, and it was like the sun had come out from behind the clouds.

“Never thought I’d hear the day when Hermione Granger was asking me to propose to her,” he marvelled.

“I’d prefer not to ask again,” she retorted.

“Merlin, I love it when you get bossy,” Draco said, that ridiculously happy smile still on his face. “Do you want me on my knees as well?”

“What?” Hermione started. The sudden image of Draco Malfoy on his knee’s before her did things to her body that she wouldn’t admit.

“Never mind,” he said and got up from his chair, moved to her side of the table and dropped down onto one knee.

She stared at the top of his blonde head, not daring to believe that Malfoy was about to prostrate himself to her in front of all these people.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a ring,” he softly whispered, as he cupped her hand.

 _He hadn’t got a ring_ , she realised with relief. _He hadn’t been sure she’d say yes to his harebrained schemes_.

 

The bar had gone very quiet, as people turned and realised what was about to happen. Hermione looked up at the curious faces around her, noting that even the barman had paused in polishing a glass. Draco cleared his throat and spoke with a loud voice, so the whole room could hear him, “Hermione Granger, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

It was like the room was holding it’s breath, waiting for her reply. Draco gently increased the pressure on her hand and she looked down into his face. He wore a self satisfied, almost indulgent expression as he patiently waited for her to answer in the affirmative. Although he was going through all the romantic motions, there was no fear of rejection or nervousness in his eyes. She’d signed the contract and was already his.

 

“Yes, I will marry you,” she said, trying to sound confident as if they’d been dating for ages and this was the natural step; and not that he was an old enemy she barely knew.

There were a few ‘oohs’ and a couple of cheers, before the whole room broke into applause.

Draco stood up and turned, so he could address the entire audience. “Ladies and Gentleman, I’d like to all buy you a drink.”

Her cheeks flared like racing fire-engines.

“And then raise a toast to this charming creature before you,” he gestured his hand in Hermione’s direction. “We’re getting married.”

Hermione glared at Draco behind her gritted smile. She didn’t know how the marriage would go but one thing was for sure; Draco would be lucky to survive the first month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Author interactions 
> 
> “While I appreciate wearing normal clothes,” Draco said to the author, as he sat in the passenger seat of the car. He was wearing shorts and a blue cotton shirt, his blonde hair glinting in the Spanish sun. “It’s gratifying,” he continued, “to not be in tight leather, or wet clinging shirts, or cumbersome hockey gear-“  
> “Yes about that,” the author said, swerving round a sharp bend in the road, “could you undo a few more buttons on the shirt, show a bit more skin.”  
> “No! I am not a sex object!” Draco shouted.  
> “Oh come on,” the author moaned and gave him an imploring look, “you’ve got such a nice chest.”  
> “Keep your damn eyes on the road woman,” Draco yelled, as he looked down at the sheer drop a few inches from the car’s wheel. “Merlin, I wish I was on a broom,” he muttered and flicked open two more buttons.  
> “Relax, we’re on holiday and I’m an excellent driver,” the author reassured.  
> “Didn’t you once hit a tree?”  
> “It was only one tree!”
> 
> Draco adjusted his grip on the leather seat, his knuckles turning white.  
> “I love Spain as much as the next man,” he said, “Fine food, fine wine, fine women,” he smirked to himself. “But what I don’t understand is why you are staying up a bloody mountain!” he snapped. “Have you seen the gaps in the road and the broken trees, where people have fallen off the road and probably to their death!”  
> “You exaggerate. Where’s your sense of adventure?”  
> “I lost it back there,” Draco said, gesturing to the narrow road, “I almost lost my breakfast too.”  
> “Here,” the author said fishing out her phone and passing it to the stunned Draco, “read this. But hurry I need it back for the sat-nav.”  
> “The sat-nav! You mean you don’t know where you’re going!” Draco spluttered, as he watched rocks bounced down the sheer cliff.  
> “Then hurry up and read.”  
> Draco took the phone and scrolled passed the many cat videos to get to the bit he wanted.  
> “Ah, that’s what I like to see,” Draco said, “all these lovely people adoring my very existence.”  
> The author rolled her eyes.  
> “To the charming,” Draco said, “blueeyedsue, Ethersound, nicacarlson14, Pinster9, Mellifera, Delirium1195, converse_crow, and 22 guests for leaving those delightful Kudos. And too Joey99, Ethersound, ruthy4vrsmoaked, BrinnaDeeofsea, ditte3, titasha, teebird101, Reena, how_to_see_a_deer, Friendoftrees, ThePsychicGnome for their glorious comments," he added. "Hopefully I will all be gracing you with my presence soon, if this lunatic doesn’t kill me with her driving.”  
> “Hey!” The author snapped and swiped at his arm.  
> “Hands on the wheel! You can hit me later woman!”


	5. The One With Threats of Jinxes and Balls

“I can’t believe you talked me into _this_ ,” Hermione snapped at Draco.

 

It was the morning after Draco’s strange proposal and they were seated outside Rita Skeeter’s office at _The Daily Prophet_. Hermione was panicking; her left knee was jiggling like a child bouncing on a trampoline.

“It’ll be fine,” Draco soothed, “I’ve dealt with Rita many times over the past few years.”

“No it won’t be fine. The last time I saw Rita Skeeter I’d just unlocked her from a jar,” Hermione said, in a strangled whisper. 

“What?” Draco's voice went decidedly higher in pitch.

“Long story. Don’t ask,” she said, waving him away like she would an errant wasp.

 

Draco placed one of his large hands on her knee and stopped her energetic bouncing. With his other hand, he took hold of her wringing hands. He ran his thumb over her knee cap, tracing the indents of the joint.

“Hermione,” he whispered, “calm down. I’ll handle everything. You just sit there looking pretty and let me do the talking.”

She gave him a slightly manic stare.

“Okay, please try to look less unhinged,” Draco said, squeezing her hands gently. “Otherwise Rita will write that I’ve cursed you into marrying me.”

She relaxed a bit. Draco did have a point, it would slightly defeat the purpose of this marriage if she looked like a crazed reck on the first day of her engagement.

“Fine,” she muttered.

 

“What Muggle book would you recommend next?” he casually asked.

“Draco, this is not the time to have a cosy chat about books!”

“Humour me,” he persisted.

She paused, flicking through her mental catalogue.

“It depends. If you want to stick with the romance genre then there is always more Austen, or the Brontë sisters.” Hermione could just imagine Draco sitting reading _Jane Eyre_ , the book in one hand and a Rochester-like riding crop in the other. She winced, _better not mention Jilly Cooper then_. 

“I would recommend reading _Sense and Sensibility_ next”, she said. _Better to stick with older fiction and nothing with sex in thank you very much,_ she thought. She did not want to give Draco any more ideas. 

 

“ _Pride and Prejudice_ , _Sense and Sensibility_. Merlin, this Austen woman sure liked her alliterative titles didn’t she,” Draco commented. “No one dies in this book do they?” he cautiously asked.

She giggled at his stricken expression. “No, nobody dies.”

“Then I’ll buy a copy from you later,” Draco assured.

“I think I can let you have this one on the house, a wedding gift,” she drolly said.

Draco leant in, so that his lips were brushing the shell of her ear. “How generous of you Miss Granger,” he whispered, a seductive murmur in his voice.

Hermione gave an involuntary shiver.

 

“Ohh, isn’t this a cosy scene,” a shrill voice called.

Rita Skeeter was standing in the door of her office, resplendent in robes of banana yellow. She watched them from behind jewelled spectacles, her keen eyes taking in Draco’s hand on Hermione’s knee.

“Rita,” Draco greeted. He got up, but kept hold of Hermione’s hand helping her stand.

“Well, well, well. Who’s been a busy boy?” Rita cackled at Draco. “You’d better both come in.”

 

Rita’s office was as ugly as Hermione had expected it to be. Zebra pattern wallpaper clashed with the crocodile skin chairs and spotted leopard carpet. As she and Draco sat in the chairs, she noticed that Rita’s desk was scratched; presumably from all the animals she’d killed for her interior design.

“And what do I owe the pleasure?” Rita said, flashing Draco a pointed smile. She ignored Hermione.

Draco sat back in the grotesque chair, his attitude relaxed and unhurried.

“We, that is Hermione and I, wanted you to be the first to know of our engagement,” Draco smoothly said.

Rita’s eyes goggled behind the thick glass of her spectacles.

“Engagement!” she spluttered.

“Yes, I proposed to Hermione last night and she, of course, accepted me,” he winked at Rita. Her expression was stunned, as if she’d just been hit by a tranquilliser dart. “We felt that telling you would be the quickest way to get the new around,” Draco continued, lacing his fingers with Hermione’s. “I expect the whole of London will know within the hour.”

Rita’s quick quotes quill rose from the desk and hovered over a piece of parchment. 

“So,” Rita said, tapping her nails on the table top, “how did this love affair start?”

 

Draco and Hermione had spent a good hour last night coming up with a plausible love story. The bar at _The Ritz_ had been almost empty by the time they finished, the bottle of Dalmore too.

“I think,’ Draco had mused to Hermione, ‘that we should keep it as close to the truth as possible.”

“You mean that we’re actually getting married due to a contract you scribbled on a napkin?” Hermione snapped.

“No you cheeky mare,” Draco scolded and took another sip of whisky. “I mean that I came into you’re bookstore and seduced you.”

“Ha,” she scoffed.

“Well their not going to believe that you seduced me,” he said, looking at her over the rim of his tumbler.

“And why not?”

“Come on Granger, it’s _me_. I’m known as a seducer of women and you are not. Of men that is, not of women.” He gave a cheeky grin, “Although women would be fine. Actually I’d really endorse you seducing women-

“Malfoy!”

“Merlin that vein is back in your forehead,” Draco said, flinching away. “Anyway we should say I came into the book shop and we started dating from then.”

“Can we mention the bits when you dressed up and made an idiot of yourself?” she innocently asked.

“No Granger, that was just for your eyes only.”

 

 

“Its quite a simple story Rita,” Draco began, and casually caught Hermione’s hand in his, “I happened to wander into Hermione’s bookshop, in Diagon Alley just down from _Florence and Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.”_ Hermione couldn’t help but shyly smile at Draco’s blatant plugging of her store. “I took one look at my old school playmate and fell under her charms.”

Rita gave Draco a fishy look. “What about you, Miss Granger,” Rita said, addressing Hermione for the first time, “how did you feel about Mr Malfoy’s surprise proposal.”

“Delighted,” Hermione said.

“Anything else?” Rita hinted.

“Ecstatic,’ she snapped.

 

“Rita,” Draco said, drawing Rita’s attention back to him, “the light of love filled her eyes. It was a beautiful sight.”

“ _Light of love_. Nice touch,” Rita said, as the quill jabbed at the parchment. “And where did this happy occurrence take place?”  
“In Muggle London,” said Draco.

“Muggle London, really? I see little Miss Granger is having a profound effect on you. Where in Muggle London?”  
“ _The Ritz_. Actually,” Draco slipped a hand inside his robe’s and pulled out a stack of polaroid photos, “these are the photographs the hotel kindly took of us. Muggle camera of course, but I’m sure your readers’ won’t mind.” He threw them across Rita’s desk.

Rita’s claw-like hands picked up one of the square photos.

 

It had been Hermione’s idea to ask the hotel staff to take photos of them. She felt that with the amount of alcohol she’d drunk and the life-changing events of the evening, her dazed and confused expression might be mistaken for love.

They’d stood in front of the famous Palm Court. The hotel was quiet, only the music hummed through from the dinning room.

Hermione had sagged against Draco, letting his strong arms support her, as they posed for what felt like was the seven hundredth photograph of the evening. She was sure hat if this was a real proposal that she would have been ecstatic at all the attention; but right now all she wanted to do was go home and get into her old flannel pyjamas.

“Is our wedding going to be like this too?” She’d asked Malfoy, as the hotel staff clicked the camera again.  
“Probably,” Draco quietly said between his smile. “Definitely if my mother has anything to do with it.”

“Is she?”

“Is she what?”

“Going to have anything to do with our wedding?”

“Try stopping her,” he wryly whispered, “I was thinking of just asking her to organise it.” He looked down at her, “If that’s agreeable to you?”

“Sure,” she mumbled, readjusting her stance, “it’s not like we’re in a rush.”

“Monday is ages away,” Draco agreeably said.

Hermione’s eyes widened and she straightened. Turning to Draco, she ground her teeth.

“What do you mean Monday?” she hissed. The camera was still snapping behind her.

“I was thinking we could get married on Monday,” Draco nonchalantly said, “no point putting things off.”

“Monday,” she dully echoed.

 

When she’d been very young, long before she’d discovered that witches and goblins were real, her parents had taken her to a fun fair. Hermione, at first sight, had fallen in love with the spinning tea cups. The disproportionately large cups with jumbo floral patterns, made her feel as if she was Alice falling into Wonderland. She taken her father’s hand and dragged him over to the queue.

“Are you sure pet,” her father had asked. “They spin very fast and you know how sick you get in the car.”

“No dad,” she said, shouting above the whirl of the fair, “these are magic tea cups.”

She’d been bouncing like a jack rabbit by the time it was their turn to board the ride. Hermione had settled herself into a pink patterned cup and been surprised at how high the rim of the cup was. No matter how far she craned her neck she couldn’t see above the lip. Then the ride had started.

Her father had been right and she’d been sick three times before the infernal thing stopped spinning. Ever since then, she’d avoided spinning tea cups like the plague. But this evening, felt like she was on that ride again; holding onto the sides and trying to keep her stomach in order, as the world turned around her in a whirl of lights and colours.

 

“Why so soon,” she asked, and let Draco twist her so that his body was pressed into her back.

“I’ve only got three years of you,” he said. “I need to get a move on if I’m to fit my whole business plan in,” Draco explained and casually slipped his hand round her waist. “Now smile Granger, we’re going to be on the front page.”

 

“How lovely,” Rita said and dropped the photo, like it was a type of insect. “And when will the wedding take place?”

“Monday,” Draco announced, with the same franknessthat he’d said it to Hermione last night.

“But it’s Friday now!” Rita recovered enough to add, “How every efficient of you.”

“Oh what can I say,” Draco put an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and squeezed her into his side, “I just can’t wait to get hitched to this girl. She is,” Draco looked deeply into Hermione’s eyes, “without a doubt the love of my life.”

Hermione felt her heart beat speed up, as Draco’s grey eyes lingered on her face. The way his eyes softened and his mouth curve into a slight smile…well, he was very convincing.

Hermione broke the stare first, and looked at Rita. She felt that looking at Rita’s vile face would be a good way of slowing down her heart rate. Rita’s own mouth was curled into a crafty smile, the light of money gleaming in her eyes.

“I hope that _The Daily Prophet_ will get coverage of the wedding,” Rita piped in.

“Of course,” Draco graciously said, looking back at Rita, “I want the whole world to see how much I’m in love with Hermione Granger.”

 

Draco stood. He’d obviously decided that this interview was concluded. Hermione was relieved. She let him guide her up from the chair and settle her hand on his arm. They made for the door.

Draco paused at the threshold and turned back to stare at Rita.

“And Rita,” he said, his tone was light but his eyes were cold, “try not to write your usual embellishments.”

Rita gave Draco a shrewd look. “You just keep giving Miss Granger those long lingering looks, and I won’t need to fabricate a thing.” 

 

 

“Thank Merlin that chore is done,” Draco said to Hermione, as they strolled out of _The Daily Prophet._ “I expect Rita will whip up the article and have it out in the evening edition.”

“So soon,” Hermione muttered. She was feeling a little overwhelmed. Draco normally was fairly charismatic, but when he had an audience she felt like she was being hit by a freight train of charm and seduction. 

“Now we have to break the news to my parents,” Draco said.

“What!” Hermione yelled, “Your parents?”

Her shout had attracted quite a lot of attention from passing witches and wizards, who pointed and whispered when they noticed who she was.

“Yes, naturally I have to tell them that they’re only son and heir is getting married,” Draco affably explained.

“But I don’t have to be there when you tell them, right?”

“It would be a bit odd if you were not with me,” Draco said, “wouldn’t portray the image of the united couple in love.”

“But-but-,” she stuttered.

“And we should probably tell Potter and Weasley before Rita’s article comes out,” Draco said, steamrolling over her protests, “I have a feeling that otherwise they'll hunt me down and hex my balls off-”

“Draco,” she wailed, “can you please shut up about your balls and let me speak!”

 

He went silent and, to her surprise, his cheeks went slightly pink.

“Did you really just shout about my balls in public?” he whispered.

“Oh,” she said, and felt her own face heat up.

Draco amiably nodded towards an middle-aged couple, who were giving them a very strange look.

“Well, after that,” he said quietly to Hermione, “I don’t think anyone in the street is in any doubt that we’ve shagged.”

“Oh dear,” Hermione said.

She stopped and tugged at Draco’s arm, signalling him to halt. They moved to the side of the pavement, out of the way of the busy thoroughfare.

 

“Draco, I’m really not comfortable meeting your parents,” she confessed and bit her lip.

He bent his head lower, so he could discreetly talk to her. “I know, but I have to ask you to do this. _For me_.”

She glanced up at him, all the while gnawing at her lip. He looked down into her worried face and his expression softened.

“I promise I won’t leave your side,” he said, “and if my father starts off, it’ll be _him_ having his balls hexed off.”

She gave a weak smile.

“I really think we need to stop talking about your father’s testicles,” she whispered.

Draco cringed. “Agreed. I now have an awful mental image of-“

“Woah! Don’t finish that sentence.”

 

He took her hand and lightly squeezed her fingers.

“I have a confession,” he said.

“Not another one,” she moaned, “I don’t think I can deal with _another_ one of your revelations.”

“I have a table book at a restaurant down the road from your store.”

“The Italian place?” she delightedly asked.

“Yes. _Giovanni’s_ ,” he confirmed.

“Ohh I’ve wanted to go there for ages! The smell of their food would waft up the street and into the shop. I’ve heard their spaghetti is charmed so it wraps itself around your fork-“

“There’s more,” Draco interrupted.

“More?”

“I’ve booked the table for four people.”

“Draco, who are the _other_ two people?”

“My parents,” he admitted.

“ _You bastard_!”

“I thought it would be good to get it over with,” he explained.

“Get it over with! It’s not like ripping off a _bloody_ plaster!”

“They’ve mellowed since you last met them.”

“Mellowed. From what? Their purist ways!”

“Fair, these are all fair criticisms,” he mollified.

“I don’t know why I’m so surprised!” Hermione shouted, “I mean this is just classic Draco. Shoving me into positions I don’t want to be in-“

She stopped when she noticed that a few people had paused in the street to watch them. Draco turned and saw the crowd as well.

“It’s alright folks,” he said, jovially to the people, “she’s talking about a new position we tried in bed, last night.”

 

“Oh my god,” she muttered, and hid herself behind Malfoy’s tall frame. She was blushing again, and she just knew that the red was creeping down her neck and blotching her collar bone.

“Come on Hermione,” Draco cajoled. “The sooner we leave for the restaurant the sooner it will be over with.”

Passed Draco’s shoulder she could see a few people whispering and pointing at her and then at Draco.

“I think we’re being recognised,” she said, grinding her teeth.

“Then let’s get out of here and go to the restaurant.”

“Fine,” she snapped, “but I warn you one mention about my blood and it’ll be me throwing the jinxes.”

“That’s my girl,” Draco said. Slinging an arm round her shoulder, he escorted them away from the crowd and down the road.

 

_Giovanni’s_ was an Italian restaurant in a New York style. The owner, Giovanni had moved from Brooklyn in the early nineteen-eighties and brought a mixture of Italian and American culture to his restaurant. Knowing this, Hermione wasn’t surprised to hear the crooning tones of Dean Martin playing as they entered the restaurant through a red painted door. The lyrics of _That’s Amore_ clearly rang above the clatter of plates, the general chatter and shouts from the kitchen, sound which made up the busy restaurant.

The promising smells of fresh tomato and melted cheese was certainly helping Hermione’s sour mood.

As a server took their outer robes, she turned to Draco and asked, “Why did you choose this place? It’s a very…casual setting to meet your parents?”

“I knew that even if you couldn’t enjoy the company,” Draco said, as they were guided through the bustling tables, “that you would at least enjoy the food.”

She was about to reply, when she caught sight of two horribly familiar figures perched on wicker chairs.

“Father, Mother,” Draco loudly greeted.

Draco’s parents turned, looked at their son and then noticed Hermione. Identical looks of shock cross their pale faces.

Draco put his arm around Hermione’s waist, steering her towards his parents. While it looked like a loving gesture, she was sure he was making certain she didn’t make a dash for the exit.

The lulling words of Martin’s song quavered through the silence that fell between the two couples. ‘ _When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine. That’s amore.’_

 

_Wine seems like a really good idea about now_ , Hermione thought. The world wasn’t exactly shinning, but it felt like it was turning upside-down. She looked up at Draco. He seemed relaxed, a small smile played around his mouth. But she could see the signs of tension around his pale eyes; the subtle crease of frown lines between his lowered brows.

 

“Just to warn you,” he said in a side-long whisper, “my mother may start talking about your birthing hips.” Hermione silently seethed, but got some satisfaction in nudging her elbow into his ribs. “She’s very keen on grandchildren.” He winced as Hermione jabbed him again. “Remember we’re meant to be the happy couple,” he reminded and moved to the side slightly, to avoid another blow from her pointy elbow.

 

“Mother, Father how are you?” Draco said, welcomingly to his parents. He clutched Hermione slightly tighter to his side, “You remember Hermione Granger.” At their dazed expressions, Draco continued, “We went to school together.” He was just laying it on now. “Well it’s fine if you don’t remember,” Draco babbled on, “because you’ll have plenty of time to get to know her. We’re getting married.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author and Draco Interactions: 
> 
> “Well this is more like it,” Draco said to the author, admiring his pinstriped three piece suit with Slytherin green matching tie and pocket square. “This is far more how a Malfoy should be dressed.”  
> “Not for long,” the author quipped, standing back and studying him.  
> “What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.  
> “I have a little treat for the readers.”  
> “Oh no, your treats usually involve my humiliation,” Draco moaned.  
> “How did you guess.”
> 
> “Hello readers,” the author addressed, “as you can all see Draco is wearing a lot of clothing. I think we should change that.”  
> “No! No I’m happy with how I look,” Draco said, backing away.  
> “Shush,” the author whispered to him, “let it happen.” She turned back to the readers, “If you, like me, would like to see much more of Draco Malfoy then the answer is simple. You can comment on which item of clothing Draco should discard.” She gestures to the paling Draco beside her, "There are so many pieces of clothing, jacket, shirt, even his socks.”  
> “I think this is a terrible idea,” Draco moaned. “I’m all up for a bit of nudity, mainly Granger’s,” he winked. “But can’t I get my kit off a bit later, when there is a delightfully naked Gryffindor in my bed?”  
> “You letch.”  
> “Me, a letch! You’re the one who is setting me up for a Hogwarts special of Magic Mike!”  
> “But think Draco,” the author cooed, “all these people will be just tuning in for you.”  
> Draco rubbed his chin. “I won’t deny, I do enjoy the adoration.”  
> “Speaking of,” the author interrupted, “check your pocket square.”
> 
> Draco pulled out the silk green pocket square and opened it up.  
> “This is a cheap trick,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the author. Draco held out the pocket square and writing was clearly visible on the green material.  
> “I learnt from the best. If you’d care to read,” the author prompted. 
> 
> Draco held the delicate square between his large hands. With a slight cough he began to read, “Thank you to Joey99, Bnicole, ditte3, arizonasnow, ThePsychicGnome, xenos, Dy, Mellifera, TeeRig, mlleB, ForksInTheRoad, and blueeyedsue for their captivating comments." He ran rubbed the silk between his thumb and forefinger. "And to Aquabelle1, Moonsong78, ForksInTheRoad, cassiewolf, cooperjones2020, Barklarky, acrp97, Sheedy, nanaochanisluv, N00477665, LadyDmalfoy, HarleyQuinnFabray,ShadowHeart1066, elzie, charferworn, JustALittleDistracted, VeroTheGhost, Bnicole, Athenaa, tx_ladyj and 21 Guests for their Kudos. You know,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “that I get a little tingle of pleasure at every Kudos, Comment, Bookmark and Subscription. And if, my dear reader, you have any love for me in your heart, don’t do what the author asks. Let me keep my dignity.” Draco pleaded, with practiced ease.  
> “If not his pants.” The author cackled.


	6. The One With The In-Laws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do apologies for the lateness of this chapter. It is long overdue.

“You’re getting married?” Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy chorused, like the audience of a Christmas pantomime.

Lucius’s tone was what Hermione had expected, one of shock and dismay. But Narcissa’s, while astonished, did not seem so unhappy by her son’s announcement. Hermione couldn’t be sure, but she swore there was a gleam of interest in Narcissa’s blue eyes.

“Yes, we’re getting married,” Draco repeated, hugging Hermione closer to his side. “I thought you should be the first to know.” Draco paused in thought before continuing, “That is after Rita Skeeter, the whole staff of _The Ritz_ and all those posh people at the bar.”

“You told Rita Skeeter that you were engaged, before your own mother.” Narcissa said, her brows flecked downwards.

“It wasn’t personal mother.”

Draco let go of Hermione and knelt down beside Narcissa. He took her pale hand in his and patted it affectionately.

“I wasn’t even aware you were dating anyone Draco?”

“We kept everything very quiet,” Draco consoled, the fib slipping off his lips like honey.

 

Draco looked past his mother to wink at Hermione. He then nodded his head in the direction of the seat beside Narcissa. Hermione got the hint and slipped into the wicker chair. Draco sat in the empty chair next to her, effectively blocking Lucius between Narcissa and himself.

“It all happened so fast,” Draco continued, speaking across Hermione to his mother.

“Fast, does not quite cover it,” Lucius said, his tone as sharp as the crack of a falling icicle.

“Well you know how it is father,” Draco dismissed, “if you don’t move fast, you never know who might catch up with you.”

At Draco’s words, Lucius visibly stiffened.

“Indeed,” Lucius coldly replied. “And how does Miss Granger feel about that?”

“You could always ask her yourself,” Draco pointedly said.

 

Lucius turned his cold eyes on Hermione for the first time. She saw him swallow, as if the sight of her made him physically sick.

“As delighted as I am,” Lucius cooly addressed her, “that my only son is getting married. I cannot help but express my amazement that it is to you.”

“It was a surprise to me as well,” Hermione said, matching his artic stare.

 

Simultaneously, Draco and Narcissa glanced from Lucius’s chilly expression to Hermione’s equally frosty one. The mother and son then shared a _look_.

Narcissa cleared her throat and plastered an uncomfortable looking smile on her face.

“I for one,” she said with false cheeriness, “would like to welcome Hermione to the Malfoy family.” Narcissa’s eyes went a bit misty. “I have long awaited the day when my Draco would get engaged and I could start planning the wedding of the century for him.”

 

Hermione gave a wooden smile in response. Draco took in her awkward expression and he gave her a reassuring nod, before turning to Narcissa and saying:

“Would you please excuse us for just a minute?”

Then Draco snatched one of the menus off the table and propped it up in front of him and Hermione, effectively shielding them from his parent’s prying eyes.

“What’s the matter?” he asked Hermione.

“I’m concerned,” Hermione said, elusively.

“About what?”

“Your parent’s are taking this very well,” she replied in a strangled whisper.

“I did tell you they’d mellowed.”

“No one has mellowed that much!” she commented.

Draco pensively rubbed his chin. “I will grant you that I’m surprised my father hasn’t started ranting. Perhaps he’s in a state of shock?”

“Or having a stroke?"  
“No, that’s just how his face normally looks,” he said, grinning at her. “I expected mother’s reaction.”

“Really?” she enquired.

“Yes. She’s been harping on at me to get marri-“ he abruptly stopped.

“Do go on?” Hermione hinted, raising her eyebrows at him.

“Nothing, nothing,” he gave her a sheepish smile.”Anyway, I’m sure she’ll have kittens when I mention that I want the wedding on Monday,” he said, swiftly changing the subject.

 

“Are you two quite finished?” Lucius loudly asked. “We hate to keep you from your tête-à-tête, but I’d like to order.”

Draco flicked the menu over, so it fell back onto the table with a small puff. Hermione noticed that a black and white dressed waiter was lingering by their table; he looked as uncomfortable as she felt to be this close to Lucius Malfoy.

“Quite done, father,” Draco smartly replied, forcing a casual smile. Lucius matched Draco’s smile with an equally false one.

“What can I get you all?” the waiter asked in a thick Italian accent.

 

They ordered. Hermione was unsurprised to find that Lucius and Narcissa ordered the most English looking food on the menu; as if they were afraid they could catch something foreign from Italian sounding food.

Hermione just ordered a main, the house special of spaghetti with meatballs. The one with the magical pasta she’d heard about. She had fancied having a side-salad, but she didn’t want to even attempt to try and elegantly eat spinach in front of Lucius Malfoy. 

“I’ll have the same as her,” Draco said to the waiter, gesturing to Hermione with his folded menu.

“Oh Draco, you’re not eating much?” Narcissa asked, concerned.

“I’m quite well mother,” Draco reassuring. “Isn’t it normal for a man in love to go off his food.”

“Or when he’s been poisoned,” Lucius smoothly added.

“Only by cupid’s arrow,” Draco dryly replied.

Hermione automatically gave a loud snort, at the falseness of Draco’s comment. Then she remembered who she was lunching with and abashedly touched her mouth.

“Pardon me,” Hermione excused.

 

“Draco,” Narcissa said, regaining her son’s attention, “when can I arrange with you to discuss the wedding? I barely see you now. Whenever I owl your office I’m told you’re out or in a meeting,” she lightly chastised.

“I won’t deny,” Draco said, “I am very busy on a new project.”

“Something lucrative, I hope,’ Lucius snapped.

“Aren’t all my business deals,” Draco briskly replied. He turned his back on Lucius and spoke to Narcissa with a smile, “Actually about the wedding. Mother, could you do us a favour?”

“Anything Draco darling.”

“We would like you to plan the wedding,” Draco said, nodding profusely at Hermione. “Wouldn’t we Hermione?”

“Yes,” Hermione promptly responded.

“Really?” Narcissa asked, giving the first genuine smile of the conversation.

“Absolutely,” Draco confirmed. “One thing, however. The wedding needs to be on Monday.”

“Monday?” Narcissa said, bemused. “What a funny day to have a wedding? But if you want to have it on a Monday, then on a Monday it shall be.”

“No, you don’t understand mother,” Draco said and Hermione noticed that he surreptitiously moved Narcissa’s knife away from her. “We need the wedding to be on Monday. As in three days away.”

“What!” Narcissa cried.

“See,” Draco said, nudging Hermione, “I told you she’d be more upset about _this_ , then us getting married.”

 

“Draco how to you expect me to plan a whole wedding over a weekend!” Narcissa yelled and thumped her fist on the table top, causing her lone fork to bounce.

“If anyone can do it you can,” Draco encouraged. “Just think, the sooner we get married the sooner we can get working on the grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren,” Narcissa and Hermione shouted together.

“Of course,” Draco said, taking his hold of his mother’s hand in one hand and Hermione’s in the other. “We want there to be lots and lots of Grandchildren.”

_Oh help_ , Hermione silently prayed.

“Ooh,” Narcissa cooed, “that would be wonderful. Wouldn’t it Lucius?”

Hermione quickly look at Lucius, wanting to see his reaction to his wife’s question. Lucius looked like he’s just swallowed a rather large slug, but he gritted his teeth and forced a smile.

“Grandchildren,” he choked. “How lovely.”

 

Narcissa examined Hermione, taking in her long brown hair and slim waist. Narcissa’s calculating look was so similar to the one Draco kept giving her, only it lacked the heated edge that Draco’s gaze always held.

“I see you are in good shape,” Narcissa said to her, “and your figure looks wonderfully proportioned. What are your measurements?”

“Mother!” Draco yelped. “Don’t comment on my fiancee’s figure like that!”

“Why Draco, I do believe you are positively blushing,” Narcissa said, and patted her son’s reddening cheek. “Don’t be modest, we know how you young people are. I bet you can’t keep your hands’ off each other-“

“Oh Merlin,” Draco swore, “please stop!”

“Don’t curse at me Draco,” Narcissa chided. Then she gave Draco an adoring smile. “Unless you two are waiting for marriage?” she coley asked.

At Narcissa’s oddly perceptive question, Hermione’s eyes bulged. But her reaction was nothing compared to Draco’s; he gave a low whine of terror and dropped his head into his hands.

“Oh I knew it. How romantic and traditional,” Narcissa gushed. “I can’t deny Draco, after I found hundreds of magazines of witches on brooms under your bed, I never expected you to be so chivalrous.”

“Mother, I am begging you. Please stop talking,” Draco’s moan was muffled by his hands.

_Witches on brooms_ , Hermione mentally considered, _that’s one to box away for future use._

“Goodness Draco, we won’t get any grandchildren if you don’t stop blushing and man up,” Narcissa berated.

“Me, man up!” Draco started, looking up from his hands to glare unbelievably at his mother.

“Yes, once you’re married you must assert yourself in the bedroom.”

Hermione covered her hands with her mouth and wheezed slightly. _The thought of Draco being more sexually assertive was one that couldn’t be comprehended. Goodness, she already felt as if he was imagining her naked every time he looked at her._

 

“Cissy,” Lucius sardonically interrupted, giving his wife a pained but indulgent look, “perhaps this is a conversation for another time? Such as beyond the grave.”

Hermione gaped. She was actually feeling gratitude towards Lucius Malfoy; something which she never in a million years thought would occur.

“You’re right Lucius,” Narcissa apologetically said, “I got carried away with the moment.”

“Carried away,” Draco muttered, “by what a blinking Firebolt.”

 

“I presume we’ll have the wedding at the Manor,” Narcissa said, flitting from the topic of her son’s sexual prowess to his wedding in the work of a moment.

“The Manor will be fine,” Draco said.

Hermione was disappointed to see the blush was receding from his cheeks. He’d looked quite fetching sitting there all pink and flustered.

“But the wedding and reception will only take place in the grounds,” Draco continued.

“But Draco, we can’t just have you’re wedding in the garden,“ Narcissa complained.

“No mother,” Draco barked, “Only in the grounds. I’m not having Hermione set one foot inside the Manor.”

Hermione’s heart sped up. Draco’s voice was firm and fringed with anger. She’d never heard him sound so outraged. He was angry at his own Mother, _over her_.

 

Narcissa looked like she was about to argue, but she caught Draco’s steely glare and crumbled. “You’re right of course Draco. It is after all your wedding.”

“And Hermione’s,” Draco reminded.

“Yes, and Hermione’s.” Narcissa pointedly agreed. She turned to Hermione and opened her mouth to speak.

“Do you have any suggestions for the wedding…dear?” the older witch asked.

Narcissa’s tone was pleasant, but Hermione observed that Narcissa’s eyes couldn’t meet her brown ones; instead she concentrated on the space just behind Hermione’s left ear.

“I’m happy to leave all the plans to you.” Hermione graciously said, making sure to look straight into Narcissa’s cornflower eyes. Narcissa lowered her gaze and seemed to become very interested in her cutlery. Suddenly her perfect brows creased.

“Where has my knife gone?” Narcissa exclaimed, looking at the empty space beside her fork.

Hermione smiled to herself.

She eagerly watched as Draco pushed Narcissa’s knife back towards her. The knife slid silently across the table top until it lay on the other side of Narcissa’s plate.

Draco tapped his mother on the shoulder.

“There it is,” Draco innocently said to her and pointed to the newly replaced knife.

“Oh, how silly of me,” Narcissa proclaimed.

Draco hid his smirk behind an artfully placed yawn.

 

The food arrived and Hermione was not disappointed. The pasta was glistening with fruity tomato sauce and the meatballs were like little planetary orbs in a universe of spaghetti.

“Nice choice,” Draco eagerly said to Hermione.

 

“Draco, how did you propose?” Narcissa’s questioned, as she skeptically peered at her lunch.

“In a bar,” Draco nonchalantly replied. His grey eyes were fixed on the enchanted spaghetti, as it wrapped itself round his fork like the snakes of Medusa. He lifted his fork and the pasta spun quicker, reeling all the loose strands in. His eyes gleamed in playful fascination.

“A bar,” Narcissa exclaimed, dropping her fork on the side of her plate, “hardly a suitable place for a Malfoy to arrange his marriage.”

“It was a fancy bar,” Draco consoled. “Wasn’t it Hermione? Those Muggle’s sure know how to decorate.”

“Muggles?” Narcissa squeakily asked.

“Yes.” Draco paused mid-chew and looked at Narcissa’s troubled expression. “What’s wrong? Have I got tomato sauce on my face?”

“You were in a Muggle Bar?” It was Lucius’s turn to ask, his voice was a strangled hiss.

“Of course, I’m getting rather fond of Muggle London.” Draco took another nonchalant bite of spaghetti. Under the table, Hermione felt Draco’s warm hand rest, assuringly, on her knee. He gave a light squeeze.

 

Hermione watched the change in Lucius’s face. It was like a Victorian Zoetrope; fractures of images which sequenced together to form a moving picture. First Lucius’s bleached eyes widened; then his countenance twisted, like the tail of a rattle snake; finally, his eyes narrowed and pierced Draco with a venomous stare. 

“Do you often frequent Muggle establishments?” Lucius sourly asked.

“All the time,” Draco lied. “I’m going to buy a Muggle place myself.”

“You intend to live in Muggle London?” Lucius said.

“Yes,” Draco curtly confirmed.

Lucius looked like he was going to spit, or breath fire; he had the same pointed expression of a brooding Hungarian Horntail.

“I forbid it,” Lucius decreed, “I will not have my son consort with Muggle-“.

“Too late,” Draco interrupted with juvenile glee.

Lucius’s shoulders gave a jerky movement, as the angry seethed within him.

“And I suppose this is all your bride-to-be’s doing.” Lucius uttered ‘bride-to-be’ like other people would have said cockroach.

 

He didn’t wait for Draco’s reply before continuing, “I have indulged this fantasy for long enough.” He pointed a bony finger at Draco, “You are not getting married, and certainly not to the likes of her.”

“You mean someone who is regarded as the greatest witch of her age?” Draco’s question was baiting, like hanging a juicy steak in front of a shark.

“No, she’s a-”

“Go on father, we all know you’re dying to say it,” Draco goaded.

Lucius’s mouth undulated, as if he was desperately holding back the curse that would spring from his lips like a jack-in-the-box.

“I won’t allow my son to sully the Malfoy name,” he finally said.

“Sully? Me?” Draco blurted, the incredulity clear in his voice. “You’ve done a good enough job at that. The Malfoy name is so tarnished I doubt anything I could do would stain it further.”

“Failure. Each year you bring more,” Lucius proclaimed, trying for a different attack.

“The Malfoy coffers are fuller than ever before. All due to _my_ business acumen,” Draco bristled. His grey eyes dangerously flashed, like clouds brimmed with lightening. 

“I would much rather be beggared,” Lucius’s maliciously sneered, “than have my own grandchildren be half-breed-

 

_Smack!_

 

Lucius flinched as a meatball hit him squarely in the face, spattering his pale features and hair with beef and tomato sauce.

Hermione lowered her arm and wiped her tomato smeared palm on her napkin.

Draco gave a low whistle, admiring her handy work.

“Nice shot,” he complimented.

 

“That’s quite enough,” Hermione said.

Her heartbeat was as a drumming thud in her ears; but Lucius’s disgusted tone when he’d uttered the term ‘half-breed’ still peeled in her brain like a church bell.

Narcissa silently gaped at her, too shocked to say or do anything. Lucius was wiping tomato sauce out of his eyes, which were looking murderous under the layer of grime.

“I am marrying Draco,” Hermione angrily shouted. “Not the Malfoy name and certainly not it’s disgusting history.” She pushed back her chair and stood, rising over the three Malfoy’s. 

“I would hope that for the sake of your son,” she continued, vigorously throwing the used napkin on the table top, “that we could all act amiably. However, I warn you Lucius please don’t test me again. I don’t give a damn weather you end up in Azkaban.”

She hated the way she enjoyed how Lucius cringed at the mention of the wizard prison.

“But in this decade, I have friends in high places,” she curtly reminded. “Just think Lucius, you could be associated with the likes of Harry Potter by next week.”

 

“Isn’t she something,’ Draco marvelled, gazing up at Hermione in admiration. “She’s read you like a book. Worked out you’re social climber to the bitter end.” Draco gave a low laugh and also stood up.

“Anyway father,” Draco checked the sleeve of his robe, “we’ll see you at the wedding. As a wedding present I’ll even up your allowance, a few more thousand Galleons a month should sweeten the deal. I know you said that money didn’t matter, but I think we both know that’s bullshit.”

Lucius said nothing, just glared at them both in stony silence. It would have been more menacing if a bit of tomato hadn’t chosen that moment to fall from his chin onto his robes.

 

“Oh Draco,” Narcissa moaned and reached out for her son. Draco let her take his hand. “Please don’t leave like this,” she said.

“We must,” Draco replied. He bent down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you on Monday. Spare no expense. Owl me the details. I hope father’s hair shampoos out,” he whispered.

Hermione had to turn away to hide her smile; she didn’t feel that Lucius’s ego could take much more humiliation.

“I will make it beautiful,” Narcissa promised, her eyes fixed on Draco’s face.

“I know you will,” Draco said and extracted himself from her grasp. He gave Lucius a fleeting glance before announcing, “I forgive you father for today’s mishap. Because, love means not ever having to say you’re sorry.”

Narcissa looked like she was going to cry. Lucius’s mouth twitched; an imperceptible movement, which Hermione couldn’t decipher the meaning of. 

“Farewell,” Draco called out, his hand moving in an exaggerated wave.

 

They left. Hermione tried not to notice the looks and whispers that followed in their wake.

 

Outside, Hermione took a deep calming breath. They’d only walked a few steps away from the restaurant before Draco stopped. He leant against the restaurant’s exterior wall and rested his head on the hard surface, his grey eyes looking upwards and following the clouds as they floated along the blue sky.

“That could have been worse,” he muttered.

“Could it?” she asked, propping her shoulder against the wall beside him. He looked tense. From his profile she could see his lowered brow and the tightness around his mouth.

“Much worse.”

She hesitated before asking, “Did I just ruin everything?”

“Nah,” Draco said, “it’s good for the old boy.” He shifted and looked down at her. The sun was behind him and silhouetted him like a golden halo, making it hard for her to see him clearly.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made things difficult for you,” she said. 

“Things were already difficult,” Draco replied and there was no mistaking the sorrowful undertone in his voice.

 

“I can’t believe you quoted _Love Story_ at your father,” Hermione said, trying to distract him.

“It was a rather shameless move,” he admitted. “You know, with your left arm we could start our own quidditch team.”

“No brooms, thank you.”

“I have to ask, is every meal or drink with you going to result in one of the Malfoy men getting moist,” Draco commented, looking at her through his eyelashes.

She glared at his smirking face, but try as she might she could keep the angry visage up for long. She faintly smiled back at him.

 

“I really thought you were going to hex him,” Draco said. He got up from the wall and placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her round a corner and away from the restaurant. “I’m relieved that you just threw your food at him instead.”

“I might have, but my wand was a bit stuck,” she confessed. She was very aware of how large Draco’s hand felt against her spine. 

“I dread the answer, but how was your wand stuck?”

“Your hand was in the way.”

“What, now?” Draco said, removing his hand from her back.

“No, not now.”

Draco ruefully smiled at her and settled his hand back above her tailbone.

“So, how was my hand preventing you from hexing my father?”

“I have a wand garter,” she explained.

Draco sharply turned his head to gaze at her.

“As in your wand is strapped to your thigh?” he asked, his voice strangely strangled.

“Uh huh.”

“Well,” Draco sighed, “that’s uncomfortably sexy.”

“Why uncomfortably?”

“Ooh, you don’t want to know,” Draco whispered.

“I don’t?” she suspiciously inquired.

“Errr…Oh thank Merlin, we’re here,” Draco said, relieved.

 

Draco pointed at a shop just ahead of them. The shop was darkly painted and the large window was filled with glittering jewellery, displayed on navy blue velvet.

“Come on Miss Granger,” Draco said, “we’re going shopping.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author and Draco Interactions:
> 
> “This is just demeaning,” Draco uttered, glaring resentfully at the author.  
>  “If it helps, you look great.”  
>  “Of course I look great. I always look great. There has never been a time when I haven’t looked great.”
> 
> Draco puts his hands on his hips. His bare, sharply sculpted hips. His little finger rested on the waist of his silk green boxers, which snugly fitted here and there. His chest was chiseled, the lines of a six pack were carved into his pale skin. The green tie still hung round his neck, loosely tied and dropping down his delicious chest creating an arrow which lead straight t—
> 
> Draco sighed dramatically.  
>  “Is it possible you could keep your eyes on my face.”   
>  “Only if I try really, really hard,” the author wistfully said.   
>  “Then try woman,” Draco snapped, tapping his bare feet impatiently on the floor.   
>  “You have lovely ankles.”  
>  “We both know you’re not interested in my ankles. Now, give me that phone device thing you have, so I can talk to the people who really matter: the readers.”  
>  “Fine,” the author said and handed over the phone.   
>  Draco snatched the phone. His arm muscles flexed and bulged slight as he held the phone up to his face. 
> 
> “Oh my Merlin,” he said, his thumb nimble flicking over the screen, “look at all these tantalising Kudos and comments.I could simply eat them all up, just hand me the spoon."  
>  “And the whipped cream?”  
>  “Don’t push it girly.”
> 
> “Now, to my captivating audience,” Draco continued. “I am much obliged for the Kudos of Logan_Lady620, ZENZAZ, Cheichei, Zelealicious2, SinClaire1313, Cconner326, allthingszuko, Mahzook, MonsterInMe, mikochase, and 20 guests. Just simply yummy." He have a side long wink. " And to: Ethersound, blueeyedsue, tx_ladyj, mlleB, Zelealicious2, arisonasnow, Joey99, titasha, Barklarky, Friendoftrees, Jlynninverness, allthingszuko, MorgannaBlack, ditte3, LadyDmalfoy, Dark-Supernatural-Angel, for their comments. It is always enjoyable to know about what parts you like.” He drawled out the word 'parts', ending the word was a serpentine hiss.   
> To the author he added, "They simply love me don’t they. Not that I blame them, there is a lot to love.” 
> 
> “There sure is.” 
> 
> “Eyes up, the goodies ain’t for you,” Draco snapped at the author. “But to you lovely readers,” Draco readdressed, “until our next meeting…which will hopefully be sooner than the last.”


	7. The One With A Goblin Strip Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're over two hundred Kudos! Thank you so much. Here is an early chapter to celebrate.

 

“Good afternoon, Demelza,” Draco called out as he entered the jewellery shop, a struggling Hermione in tow.

“Hello Mr Malfoy, how lovely to see you again. And so soon,” the pretty shop assistant said.

Hermione stopped wresting against Draco’s hands and looked up at the young woman, in surprise.

“You’re Demelza Robins,” Hermione stated. “You were on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”

“Yes, I’m so pleased you remembered me,” Demelza replied, beaming at Hermione. Demelza Robins had a round charming face, periwinkle-blue eyes and dark auburn hair.

What was interesting is that Demelza didn’t seem phased at all by the fact Hermione was with Draco Malfoy, or that the old Slytherin was holding her firmly by the hand.

 

“Demelza has an excellent eye for the finer things in life,” Draco praised. “I asked her to put together a small selection of rings for you to choose from,” he explained to Hermione.

“I really don’t need a ring-“

“Nonsense,” Draco dismissed. “It would offend my delicate Malfoy disposition if my fiancee didn’t have an expensive engagement ring.”

“I’ll be quite content with a simple wedding band,” Hermione argued.

“Maybe, but that would be _very_ out of character,” Draco reminded.

Hermione paused as the memory of their contract trickled through the mists of time and alcohol: _both Parties agree to stimulate appropriate physical contact to maintain the image of a happily married couple._

“Fine,” Hermione snapped at him.

 

“Demelza, show us the goodies,” Draco said, steering Hermione towards the counter.

Demelza produced a tray with a selection of rings artfully placed on black velvet. Hermione noticed that Demelza favoured her right arm, as she neatly smoothed down the corners of the velvet and picked an errant pierced of fluff of the display.

“Mr Malfoy didn’t specify exactly what you’d prefer, so I based my choice on what I remembered about you,” Demelza shyly explained.

Hermione gave the girl a reassuring smile and peered at the jewelled offerings.

“I like that one,” Draco said, touching his hand to a large diamond ring.

“Of course you would,” Hermione muttered, “the bigger the better with you.”

“Size doesn’t matter,” Draco quipped, “it’s how you use it.”

Hermione gave him a sharp look.

“You’re not talking about rings are you?” she said with a resigned tone.

“I have no idea what you are implying,” Draco replied, feigning innocence; but his eyes sparkled like the sun reflected on a calm ocean.

 

Hermione looked away before she became captured in his gaze, like a ship lost at sea. She went back to scanning the rings. Her eyes flitting from one stone to the next, rejecting them in turn. Then she paused.

Snuggly sitting in between two single stoned diamond rings was a stunning ring. A single azure sapphire surrounded by chips of diamonds, which crept down the platinum band. She brushed the pad of her finger across the ring’s surface; the metal valleys and hills felt like a tiny landscape under her skin.

“Would you like to try it?” Demelza asked, noticing Hermione’s lingering gaze.

“May I?” Draco whispered, reaching for the ring and seizing it between thumb and forefinger. “Give me your left hand,” he requested to Hermione.

Hermione held out her hand, letting it hover expectingly in the air. Draco’s free hand grasped her’s. He lined up the ring and guided it, easily, onto her finger. Hermione often winced at cliches in romance books, but she couldn’t deny that the ring fitted perfectly.

 

“Well done Demelza,” Draco praised, admiring the ring on Hermione’s finger. “You’ve chosen superbly, once more.”

“Thank you Sir,” Demelza said. “What do you think Miss Granger?” the girl asked Hermione, anxiously glancing at Hermione’s deadpan expression. 

“Lovely,” Hermione rapidly reassured.

“Let me go and get the authentication certificate,” Demelza said, “I know this ring has an interesting history.” Her words petered off as she disappeared round the back of the shop leaving Hermione and Draco alone.

 

Hermione went to slip the ring off her finger, but Draco’s strong hand stopped her.

“Keep it on,” he said, entwining his firm finger’s with her’s.

“But we don’t even know the price,” Hermione objected, wriggling her hand to try and extract it from Draco’s. He abruptly squeezed her hand, his cool palm pressed into her suddenly very hot one.

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco dismissed. “I’m getting you that ring.”

 

Hermione looked down at the glinting ring on her wedding finger. She turned her hand and let the sapphire’s facets catch the light. From this angle, the cerulean blue of the stone sparkled with twinkles of diamond white. The beguiling mass of colours reminded her of something. _It wasn’t the sea; it was more alive; it had more expression than water._

 

“Is that big brain of your’s over analysing again?” Draco said, interrupting her cogitations.

She glanced up and into Draco’s self-assured face. A small smile played round his lips, causing light crinkles round his eyes. His eyes which danced like the ring on her finger. _Uh oh_.

“Gosh Granger,” Draco exclaimed, “you do like the ring, don’t you? Because your face looks just like mine did when I saw a naked goblin.”

“It’s beau- What do you mean seen a naked goblin?” Hermione exclaimed, raising her eyebrows at Draco. “When have you seen a goblin naked?”

“Goyle’s stag-do. We thought it would be funny to hire a goblin stripper for him.”

“Why for Merlin’s sake would you do that?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, I highly regretted the decision. Not as much as Goyle did,” he wryly added. “She did this dance with a scarf and maracas, which she would shake every time she- ”

“Stop!” Hermione shouted, frantically waving her hand in a slicing motion. “Do what you want Draco, but please don’t say another word about shaking maracas!”

“Do whatever I wa-“

“Not one word!” Hermione said, silencing Draco’s question.

 

Draco did a military salute, which he ruined by slyly winking at her. In reply, she gave an exasperated flick of her head and fixed him with a long sideways stare.

Draco matched her stare. Keeping up their impromptu staring match, he lowered his arms and stated to sway his body from side to side. His hips were grinding in a circular motion, and he wiggled his shoulders in time to some unknown beat. He brought his hands up and curled them into loose fists, as if he was mimicking holding something.

_Perhaps grasping a broom_ , she wondered.

Then Draco started to shake his hands in rapid up and down movements, matching the mute rhythm of his dance.

_So not a broom then_.

Draco was now shimming his chest.

_It’s almost like he’s dancing to music_.

Draco’s hands were waggling so fast that they were almost blurring before her eyes.

_A dance which involves shaking something… what could that be? s_ he wondered

Suddenly, she realised what he was doing.

_The hands, the shaking, the dancing!_

 

“You!” she screeched, “Stop impersonating a goblin’s strip tease with maracas!”

 

At Hermione’s clamour Demelza hurried back into the shop, but paused when she saw Draco’s astonishing mime dance.

Draco immediately stopped wiggling his hips. He mischievously glanced from Hermione’s redden, angry face to Demelza’s dazed expression. A grin split across his face and he started to silently laugh. His body now shaking because of hysterics, rather than because of his performance as a goblin stripper.

 

“Is he alright?” Demelza asked Hermione, as she delicately extricated, from under her right arm, a small box and a scroll of parchment. She placed them both on the glass counter with a small clink.

Draco looked up and gave Hermione a pointed nod, as if to say ‘ _you did say no talking._ ’

“Mr Malfoy is on a time-out,” Hermione explained to Demelza with a sigh. “He’s being a prat.”

Demelza gave a discreet smirk.

“I say being a prat,” Hermione added, “but for Draco prattishness is just a state of being.”

Draco was double up, the laughter racking his body like…well a pair of maracas.

 

“You have excellent taste Miss Granger,” Demelza said, smiling at the ring that adorned Hermione’s hand.

“Of course she has excellent taste,” Draco interrupted, and barged over to the counter, “she’s marrying me.” His face was a little pink and his voice a little wheezy, but a part from that you’d never know Draco had just been having a childlike frolic.

“What happened to the silent Draco,” Hermione retorted, “I was getting fond of him.”

“Don’t lie Granger, you missed the sound of my voice.”

“You’ve barely been quite for two minutes!”

“But wasn’t it a _dull_ two minutes.” He suggestively leered at her, challenging her to refer back to his improvised goblin dance.

 

“So, how long has Mr Malfoy been a customer here?” Hermione distractedly asked Demelza. The image of Draco’s gyrating hips was still prominent in her brain.

“Oh years,” Demelza said, “he used to ask me to pick out a few pieces of jewellery three of four times each week. Our poor owl was always flying off, delivering to different addresses.”

“Three or four times a week?” Hermione commented, raising her eyebrows at him.

“I have a lot of old, infirm female relatives,” Draco replied, smirking at her unconvinced expression.

 

“If Mr Malfoy hadn’t been such a frequent customer, I don’t know how I would have stayed afloat after my parent’s died and I inherited the shop,” Demelza said, her voice hitching as she finished her sentence.

Hermione’s expression softened at the sadness which passed over Demelza’s features.

“I have said it before, and will say it many times,” Draco said to Demelza, “you have an impeccable eye for detail. Mrs Goyle was astounded at the birthday present you picked out for her last month. Although,” Draco said, rubbing his chin, “perhaps don’t mention you were the one to choose it. You might get Goyle in a lot of trouble.”

The younger witch preened at Draco’s compliment.

“Discretion is the word,” Demelza said, smiling contentedly.

“Now, you know the drill,” Draco said and plucked the box and parchment off the counter, “send the bill to my vault and give yourself an extra ten Galleons as a tip.”

“Thank you Sir,” Demelza said. “And Miss Granger,” the witched addressed Hermione, “congratulations.”

Hermione gave a fleeting smile before stepping out into Daigon Alley.

“I’m glad your womanising ways helped someone,” Hermione said to Draco, the moment the door had shut behind them.

“I am a very generous person.”

“Does she have any idea that she was facilitating you getting laid?” Hermione increased her steps to keep up with Draco’s long strides.

“Probably not. She’s an innocent soul our Demelza.”

“And don’t you feel any sort of guilt over this?”

Draco slowed his pace and stopped in front of Hermione. She almost bumped into his solid chest and she had to crane her neck to look into his deeply shadowed face.

“What bothers you more,” he challenged, “that I slept with these women, or that I bought them gifts after?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” she automatically replied.

“Well, you’re doing a great impression of that,” Draco sarcastically snapped.

 

Then Hermione’s stomach rumbled, loudly. She pressed her hands over her abdomen, trying to block the noise as another rumble thundered out.

Draco looked down at her concave belly.

“I guess our lunch was rather interrupted,” he commented, smirking at her bashful expression. “Come on, let me buy you a snack.”

 

A snack turned out to be a sandwich stacked three layers high and filled to bursting with chicken, lettuce, tomato and bacon. They sat on a bench outside the cafe, munching on the food and drinking coffee from compressed parchment cups.

“For someone who helped flatten Slytherin in the Quidditch house cup, you are very kind to Demelza,” Hermione said, flicking a crumb off the sleeve of her robe.

Draco stopped chewing his corn beef sandwich.

“Demelza had her left arm crushed in The Battle for Hogwarts,” Draco said. “She can never play quidditch again, at least not in a professional league. Although my younger self would hate to admit it, the girl had real talent.”

“You feel sorry for her?”

“It’s more than that,” Draco struggled. “In her, I see something of my own lost future. I was like her once, it was my dream to play Quidditch. And through circumstances, I had to give up that dream. With Demelza, her future was snatched away.” Draco paused, sensing that he’s said too much. “She’s a nice kid,” Draco gruffly continued, “and an example of how you raise pureblood children properly.

“Your a secret softy aren’t you Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, her sandwich forgotten.

“No,” Draco balked, “I wouldn't buy from her if she wasn’t good at what she did.

“Sure,” she said, and let her hair fall in front of her face to hide her smile.

 

The Gringotts’s clock chimed out the hour. Hermione paused to listened, counting each keeling ring.

“Five o’clock already,” she said, once the bell’s tones were finished. “I ought to be going.”

“Where?” Draco asked.

“To Harry’s. I need to tell them about _us_.”

Draco took her empty coffee cup from her and, together with this own cup, squashed the wet parchment into a ball. He then lobbed the rubbish into the recycling bin, spinning the makeshift ball into the vessel with expert precision.

“We ought to get going,” he said, brushing his hands in a matter of a fact way.

“We?”

“Why yes, I’m coming with you.”

“No, no no no,” Hermione hurriedly repeated.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll aggravate the situation.”

“No I won’t.”

“So you’re telling me you won’t throw jibes at Harry, or make cutting remarks to Ron?”

“Me, provoke Potty and the Weasel?”

  
She placed a hand on her hip and threw him an irked glance.

“Alright I see your point,” Draco admitted, “at least let me give you a lift there.”

“How?”

“On my broom.”

“Do you actually mean your broom or are you talking about your… _private parts_ again?” Hermione asked, grimacing at the leer that came over Draco’s face when she talked about his ‘private parts’.

“Why Granger, you shame me. My intensions are perfectly honourable.”

“But _not_ your magazine collection,” she reminded.

“It was an appreciation of the female form.”

“ _Witches on Brooms_ , how very much like a wizard.”

“Would you believe it was just a racing broom catalogue?”

“No."

“I didn’t think so. To give the publication credit, brooms were in all the photographs.”

“And nude women.”

“They happened to be there too. _Sometimes_ there would be more than one.”

“Of the nude woman?”

“No, the brooms.”

She rolled her eyes

“I was young,” Draco idly defended. “I don’t need them now. Now I have no problem in getting women to undress-“

“Woah! Too much information,” Hermione said, placing her hand on Draco’s chest to emphasise her point.

 

Draco looked down at her hand, pale against the dark material of his robes. Even through the material she could feel the hot firmness of his chest and the curve of muscles under her fingers. She dropped her hand, like she’d been burned.

“I think I’ll just use the floo to at The Leaky Cauldron to get to Harry’s,” she faintly said.

“As you wish,” Draco conceded, and his eyes lingered on the engagement ring he’d just given her. “I have some errands to run anyway.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author and Draco Interactions:
> 
> “Wow!” Draco exclaimed, “I’m in armour!” He patted down his body, checking out the plated metal sleeves and fitted breast plate. He tapped his fists onto one of the metal circles.  
> “I cannot believe that I am, for once, wearing clothes,” he sardonically muttered.  
> “Momentary weakness,” the author admitted. Unclothed Draco was always a treat, but having Mr Malfoy dressed as the God of Thunder was a sight to behold. Perhaps worshiped. 
> 
> “And a cape?” He said, noticing the red floor length cape attached to his shoulders by more metal circles.  
> He twirled and the cape billowed round him, like the petals of a flower. “This is so superior to wizard or muggle fashion. I think I might start a new trend.”  
> Draco paused in his spin and twitched his nose. He lifted his hand to his face and felt the corse facial hair.  
> “Wait…is this a beard?” he spluttered, slapping both his hands over his face.  
> “A great big bushy beard.”
> 
> “Oh Merlin, and what have you done to my hair!” he yelled, his voice going up several semitones. He touched his pale hand to his shoulder length hair, the strands falling in front of his face like a TRESemmé model.  
> “Have I got hair extensions in?” he gasped, staring at the author in horrified wonder.  
> “Well, I prefer pre-Ragnarok Thor and he has long hair…so,” she trained off. “Did you notice the hammer?” she piped in, trying to distract the errant Malfoy.  
> “Hammer?” he perked up.  
> “Over there.”
> 
> “Ohh,” Draco said and hurried over to the hammer. He grasped the handle and easily lifted it into the air, striking a heroic pose. Which was slightly ruined when he stepped on the edge of the cape and almost fell to the ground.  
> “This is very light,” he commented, waving the hammer over his arm.  
> “That’s because it’s made out of plastic.”  
> “Plastic!”  
> “I couldn’t have you playing around with a real one,” the author said, “what if you’d hurt yourself.”  
> “Or somebody else,” Draco replied, darkly. “Great, so I’m a chap in some armour whose only weapon is a plastic hammer. This hardly portrays the image of virile masculinity I want.”  
> “Virile masculinity, hey.” The author leered.  
> Draco covered his ‘masculinity’ with the plastic hammer.  
> “It may only be a toy,” Draco imperiously said, “but I will protect my virtue with it to the very end.”
> 
> “You. Virtue. Really?”  
> “I can feel the righteousness surging within me.” Draco majestically pressed his free hand over his chest.
> 
> “Moving on from the surging.” The author stepped, smartly, away from Draco. “You have some thanks to give.”  
> “I know,” Draco eagerly said, “I am ecstatic over the response my father’s food incident created.”  
> “I think I dressed you as the wrong brother,” the author commented. “You would have suited Loki, the God of Mischief, much better.”  
> “Who?”  
> “Nevermind.”
> 
> The author handed Draco a piece of yellowish vellum. 
> 
> He held out the vellum in one hand and grasped the hammer in the other, and began to ceremoniously address the readers.  
> “Thank you for coming here today, beloved readers. Each hit, each comment, each subscription, each kudos, is gratefully accepted. 
> 
> He waved the hammer in a straight arc.  
> “You are the worthy, who join me in the war to wed and win Granger! To my battle bards, thank you Dy, RheaSalvatore, Joey99, Dark-Supernatural-Angel, ofthemoon, allthingszuko, MorgannaBlack, bueeyedsue, mlleB, nibbs, Hristonostore+Onnediel, Ladycrafter, Jawaiian86, and ditte3."   
> Draco paused for breath, before rallying, "And to my kudos warriors, may valour shine on The_Gingerbread_Knight, StarkBaratheon, GrizzlyBearWrestler, TidyThunder, ofthemoon, Jlynninverness, Aktweetypi, Lilbug936, Vatsala, and 12 guests!"
> 
> Draco lowered the hammer.  
> “Until the next fight, my loyal army!” He turned to the author. “You know, I think a scepter would become me much better than a hammer.”  
> “Yes,” the author muttered to herself, “definitely the wrong brother.”


	8. The One Where Harry Cannot Deal With Malfoy’s Physical Attributes

Hermione softly knocked at the Potter’s front door; her knuckles barely grazing the wood, as if she hoped no one would hear her.

She hadn’t travelled straight to Harry’s, but instead, had flooed from _The Leaky Cauldron_ to a nearby wizard pub Harry and Ginny hadshown her. Malfoy had been acting very strangely - well, more strangely than normal-when she’d left. He’d accompanied her to the brick wall which hid the secret passage between the pub and _Diagon Alley._ She taken her wand out of her wand garter, discreetly lifting her robe to remove her wand from the thigh holster. Draco had made a sound, almost a whimper mixed with a whine, then he’d suddenly rushed off mumbling his excuses. Hermione had noted that his eyes were very wide and he’d been biting his bottom lip so hard that it had gone white.

 

She’d stepped out of the rural English pub and started the short walk to the Potter’s. She wanted time to clear her head, figure out what she had to say without the distracting presence of Malfoy. The walk wasn’t inspiring but at least she didn’t feel quite such a bewildered idiot.

The ring was still an unfamiliar weight on her hand.

 

A few seconds had passed between her knocking and she was about to try again, when Harry opened the door.

“Hermione,” Harry greeted, “I wasn’t expecting you. Come on in.” He moved aside so she could enter the house. “Ron’s out in the garden. We’ve been working-“

“ _Really_ , working?” she interrupted.

“Alright no.”

“Qudditch?”

“Maybe a bit. Don’t tell Ginny. She went to the Burrow last night. Teddy’s spending the week there and she wanted to settle him in.”

“And let me guess, she left you a load of chores to do while she was away.”

“Something like that.”

“Which you haven’t done?”

“Maybe,” he smiled.

“Can I help?”

“Do you know I good spell for getting burned onions of the ceiling.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Have kids, then you’ll see.”

She rolled up her sleeves. “Alright. Let me take a look.”

 

It only took her a few minutes to concoct a spell to clean Harry’s kitchen ceiling. She finished off the job by muttering a simple cleansing spell to clean off the remnants of the stained vegetables.

“You know Hermione,” Harry said, watching her work with obvious appreciation. “You should write a book on household spells. It would be a bestseller.”  
“Perhaps,” she said, placing her wand on the kitchen table. “I think I’ll stick to fiction for the moment however.”

“Can I get you a drink?” Harry offered, walking over to the kettle.

“Yes.”

“Tea? Could you go and ask Ron if he wants anything?”

“Should I just open the beer now?”

Harry gave a chuckle. “He is a bit predictable. But go and ask anyway. He’d like to see you.”

 

Hermione walked through Harry’s house, stepping over discarded toys and almost breaking her neck on a discarded toy broomstick lying in front of the back door. Harry’s back yard was more like several houses yards. The grassy clearing was the size of a field and surrounded by a crop of thick trees; blocking the garden’s view from any prying Muggles.

She spotted Ron only a few meters away, playing with a broomstick servicing kit. They’re didn’t seem to be much servicing going on, more a lot of putting his fingers into the different types of jars and polishes in the kit.

“Hi Ron,” she said, walking up to where he was sat.

Ron jumped and dropped the jar he was holding.

“Merlin, you scared me,” he said and spun around to look at her. “You’ve lost weight,” he commented.

Hermione bend down and retrieved the jar from the grass.

“Nice to see you too,” she snapped and handed him back the polish.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Ron grumbled. “You just look a bit thin. What you doing here? You normally only visit for Sunday lunch.”

Hermione detected a note of disapproval in Ron’s last sentence. She decided it was best to ignore it.

“I needed to speak to you and Harry.”

“What’s wrong,” Ron asked, concern clear in his round face.

“Nothing. I just need to tell you something,” she elusively said. “Oh and Harry wants to know if you’d like a drink.”

“Butterbeer.”

“Never would have guessed. Come on then, I’m not going to bring it out to you.”

 

Ron followed her back into the kitchen, where Harry was pouring two cups of tea. The beer lay cooling on the kitchen counter. Ron immediately it up and took a deep swig.

Harry silently handed Hermione her cup and saucer. She sat at the table and watched the tea ripple as Harry sat beside her. Ron stayed leaning against the counter, beer in one hand and the other stuffed into his faded jeans.

“So,” Ron said, “what’s up?”

“I have an announcement,” Hermione babbled, mainly addressing this to Harry.

Harry frowned at her garbled words.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked.

“I’m fine,” she assured. She fingered the cup’s handle, playing with the curves of the delicate porcelain. She’d given these teacups to Ginny as a wedding present.

“We’re all ears,” Harry said.

“I’m getting married.”

“Huh?” Ron mumbled.

“I’m getting married,” she repeated and quickly glanced up at her two best friends. Their expressions were gaping shock, not quite as bad as the Malfoy’s but not looks of joy either.

“To who?” Harry spluttered.

 _Here it goes,_ Hermione thought and braced herself for impact.

“Draco Malfoy.”

“What the fuck,” Ron swore, slamming his beer bottle on the counter top. She winced as the glass connected with the surface, making a loud crack.

 

“I’m marrying Draco Malfoy,” she recited, her voice a melodic beat like the one she used to practice a new spell.

“What’s the little ferret done! Has he cursed you?” Ron yelled. “Harry, where’s your wand? We need to do the counter curse now.”

“He hasn’t cursed me,” Hermione exclaimed. “He asked me to marry him in the usual manner.”

“At wand point?” Harry queered.

“No, on one knee.”

“Are you really telling us that Draco Malfoy got down on the floor and asked you to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure _he’s_ not cursed?”

“Ha,” Ron grunted. “Would that really be a problem?”

“Yes, it would be Ron,” Harry argued, “if it means he’s got Hermione marrying him.”

“Good point,” Ron said. “We better pay a visit to the slime ball, just in case. Even if he’s not cursed, he soon will be.”

“No!” Hermione shouted. “No one has jinxed, cursed, or enchanted anyone. We’re just-” she wanted to say ‘in love’ but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She settled for, “We’re just happily getting married.” It sounded lame, even to her.

 

Harry and Ron exchanged worried glances. Hermione ignored them and took a sip of her tea. Too milky and under brewed. Harry had never mastered the art of a good cup of tea.

“Say Malfoy isn’t cursed,” Harry said, his tone deceptively reasonable. “How come you didn’t tell us you were in contact with him?”

“We kept it a secret,” Hermione said, the dishonesty stinging at her conscience like a wasp.

“We’re Aurors. We find out people’s secrets.”

“ _Very_ secret. His parents only found out this afternoon.”

“You told Lucius Malfoy you were marrying his son? How are you still alive?” Ron blurted.

“That was very foolish Hermione,” Harry seriously said. “You should have had one of us there. Lucius is a dangerous man.”

“I can deal with the likes of Lucius Malfoy,” Hermione asserted.

Harry held up his hands, palms up and signalling half time.

“We know you’re very capable,” Harry said soothingly.

 

Hermione smoothed her hand over her forehead, trying to rub away the headache that was blooming.

“What is that on your finger?” Ron observed her engagement ring.

“Draco gave it to me,” she weakly said.

Ron’s anger was practically palpable and seething under the surface of his deathly white skin.

“It’s certainly big enough, Malfoy’s put his little brand on you,” Ron sharply said. “Is that why your marrying him, because he’s rich?

“Ron,” Harry interrupted, “we know Hermione isn’t like that.”

Harry looked at her. His jet green eyes searching for confirmation in her’s, but she couldn’t meet his stare.

“You’re not, right?” Harry hesitantly queried, “Marrying him for his money?”

“No Harry,” she sighed. _Not just his money,_ she bitterly added.

“We know you’ve been struggling with the shop,” he continued. “You would let me know if you needed help?”

“Yes Harry,” she falsely promised, which lied heavily on her tongue.

 

“Do you love him?” Harry softy asked.

“I-I,” Hermione faltered.

“Merlin Hermione,” Ron bellowed, breaking the silence than had fallen between her and Harry. “If you can’t say that you even love the git, why the hell are you marrying him?”

“Because he asked me,” she shouted back. From the look of horrified outrage that passed across Ron’s face, she immediately regretted her rash yell.

“You didn’t say yes when I asked you to marry me!” Ron fought back. “How the fuck can you suddenly marry Malfoy, when you turned me down flat after years of dating?”

 

“You drunkenly proposed to me at Harry and Ginny’s wedding!” she exclaimed. “You slobbered yourself over me then casually said I should tie- and I quote- ‘the ball and chain’ to you.”

“It might have been a shit proposal, but it was still a proposal.”

“You wanted me to stop working.”

“All I said was that you didn’t need to work. You could give up the shop. I hated seeing you disappointed when no one was interested in your books.”

“People are interested.”

“Whatever you say Hermione. When it comes down to it you broke up with me; not the other way round."

“I said we should have some time a part. To think through what we wanted.”

“Sounds like a fairly bog standard break up.”

“And how did you spend this time a part?” She carried on, her tone full of taunting rage. “Oh wait I recall! You contemplated our relationship with Lavender Brown.”

“Oddly enough when your girlfriend says she doesn’t want to see you, is to me a break up.”

“I still loved you!”

“And I you,” Ron replied, his voice ragged and hoarse.

“How could we go back after that?” Hermione sadly asked. “You slept with someone else only a few hours after you proposed to me.”

“I’m not proud of it,” he said.

“It was cruel Ron.”

“Cruel. You’re telling me I’m cruel. Do you not remember how Malfoy was at school! Have you forgotten how much of a selfish prick he is!”

“He didn’t break my heart.”

“No, he just sat idly back while you were tortured,” Ron sarcastically jeered.

Hermione flinched. Ron’s words felt like physical blows.

“Ron,” Harry warned. “Don’t.”

 

“I will always love you,” Hermione pleaded. “You, Harry and I what we went through, it bound us. You will always be my best friends.”

“Not a good enough friend to tell me about your new boyfriend though,” Ron pointed out.

Hermione used the same words that Draco had said to his mother. “It all happened so fast.”

“Nothing is too fast that you couldn’t tell us about it.” Ron ran his hands over his face and up into his hair, causing his thick red hair to spike. “I’ve got to leave” he announced.

“Ron?”

“Not now Hermione,” Ron said, pulling his wand out from his pocket. “I need a break.” And with that he vanished.

 

“Hola,” Ginny’s voice fluttered through from the hallway. “Did I just hear Ron disapparate?” she asked, walking into the kitchen.

She had a large brown package under one arm which was digging perceptibly into her hip. Harry instantly got up and took the package from her, placing it on the table next to his untouched cup of tea.

“What’s happened,” Ginny asked, taking in Harry and Hermione’s stoic expressions.

“Hermione’s getting married,” Harry said and turned his back on them, to fuss with the kettle.

 

“Don’t joke with me Potter,” Ginny said, smiling widely at Hermione.

“I’m not kidding you,” Harry called back.

Ginny’s smile snapped off, like someone just pulled a switch.

“Hermione?” she said, searching Hermione’s face for some sort of explanation. Hermione held up her left hand, letting the ring silently respond for her.

“Wow! That’s a _big_ ring!” Ginny exclaimed.

“And guess who she is marrying?” Harry commented, as he refilled the tea pot with fresh water.

“I have no idea,” Ginny impatiently said.

“Draco Malfoy.”

“As in ex-deatheater Draco Malfoy?”

“The very one.”

Ginny glared at Hermione.

“I go away for one night and you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble!” Ginny slumped into the chair opposite Hermione. “Harry,” she shouted back to her husband, “sod the tea. Bring out the emergency ice-cream instead. I’ve got some interrogating to do.”

 

“So let me get this straight,” Ginny announced, “Draco Malfoy wanders into your shop one ‘magical’ day and you two fall in love?” She stabbed her spoon back into a tub of raspberry ripple ice-cream.

Hermione nodded. Her own mouth was full with mango ice-cream.

“And you, in classic Granger fashion,” Ginny continued, “forgive and forget and jump into the sac with Malfoy.”

“Ginny, please don’t refer to Hermione having sex. Especially with Malfoy,” Harry chided. He tentatively reached out his spoon intending to dip it into Ginny’s ice-cream tub, but she fiercely beat him back with her own spoon.

“I wouldn’t say ‘jump into the sac’,” Hermione said.

“Make love,” Ginny uttered, “whatever floats your boat. And now you’re hitched to the guy and getting married in three days?”

“Errr…Something like that.”

“Hum…he must have one hell of a di-“

“Ginny!” Harry spluttered.

“Oh grow up Potter. We’ve all heard the rumours about Malfoy. I just want to know if they’re true.”

“Could you then save this conversation for when I’m not around?” Harry snipped.

“Sure,” Ginny said, “go on off to bed and then you don’t have to hear it.”

“Harry,” Hermione begged, “don’t leave me with this mad woman.”

“Who are you calling mad? I’m not the one getting wed to the baddest boy in school.”

“I’ll stay,” Harry agreed, “Just no more talk of Malfoy’s physical attributes.”

  
“How are you going to have this wedding organised in time?” Ginny asked, her brows knotted in confusion. “Or are you intending to elope?”

“Narcissa’s arranging everything.”

“Was that wise?”  
“Probably not,” Hermione admitted.

“Just think Harry,” Ginny said, with mock wistfulness, “all those deatheaters and good guys in one big room.”

“I’ll have to attend,” Harry announced, “just to make sure there isn’t a blood bath.”

“And of course I’m coming,” Ginny added, “who else is going to be your maid of honour.”

Hermione felt the back of her eyes start to tingle.

“Oh Gin.”

“Now don’t cry,” Ginny scolded. “You’ll set Harry off.”

Hermione laughed and Harry took the opportunity to grab her mango ice-cream and jam his spoon in.

“Oi!” Hermione shouted, and Harry took a humongous bite of her ice-cream.

“What?” he said, between mouthfuls, “It’s an emotional time for me as well.” Then he cracked a creamy grin at her.

Hermione smiled

 

_Knock, knock._

 

Harry whipped his head around and stared at the front door.

“Gin, are we expecting anyone?” he asked.

“No.”

Harry got out of his chair and silently moved to the door. Holding his wand at the ready, he peered through the spy glass embedded into the wood.

“I don’t bloody believe it,” Harry cursed.

“Who is it?” Ginny asked, rising from her chair and reaching for her wand.

Harry didn’t answer, but turned the handle and flung the door wide open.

“Malfoy, what a pleasant surprise,” Harry loudly said, so that Ginny and Hermione could hear him as well.

Ginny threw Hermione a look, but Hermione shrugged in response. She was as miffed as Ginny was.

“Good evening Potter,” Draco’s silky tones replied. “May I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Hermione’s Author Note:
> 
> “Greetings Readers,” Draco said. He was sitting in a plastic chair, his arm slung over the back and his legs propped on the wooden tabletop in front of him.  
> “Feet off the table Malfoy,” Hermione scolded, appearing next to Draco. She pushed Draco’s legs till his feet fell back to the floor. “This is a library. A place to study, not to put your feet up and have a quiet kip.” She sat down in the seat next to Draco.  
> “I fail to see the difference,” Draco casually said.  
> “I’m sure you don’t,” Hermione acidly replied, “which is probably why I always beat you in exams.”  
> “Ouch, that was harsh.”  
> “No more than you deserve.”  
> Draco rolled his eyes and turned back to the readers. “As you can see our author isn’t with us today. Instead we have an improvement. The charming Miss Granger is joining us-“  
> “Shush,” Hermione interrupted, “people are trying to study.”  
> “We’re in a university library!” Draco whispered back, “I doubt they are. They are probably canoodling in the comparative literature section.”  
> “Ha!”  
> “What? They’re students. I know that’s what I would do. My, I could tell you about the times I found a deserted corner in the Hogwarts library and”- Hermione gave him a filthy look - “where I would work diligently and without distraction,” Draco finished, giving her a wary glance.  
> “Are you quite finished?” Hermione icily asked.  
> “For the moment.”  
> “Good. Then shall we proceed.”  
> “Oh lets,” Draco muttered.  
> “Hello Readers,” Hermione softly said, “we would like to take you for all the hits, kudos, bookmarks and comments.”  
> “And we’d like to ask for more,” Draco added, watching Hermione from under his pale eyelashes.  
> “Draco, you can’t proposition people like that!”  
> “If you don’t ask Granger, you don’t get.”  
> “Either way,” Hermione said, steering the conversation back, “thank you for the comments from GendrysNorthernWench, Joey99, Vatsala, LadyDmalfoy, Dy, tx_ladyj, Reine, mlleB, Hristonostore Onnediel, Dark-Supernatural-Angel, blueeyedsue, ditte3, RheaSalvatore."
> 
> And,” Draco said, “the Kudos from dreamcatcher121, thtgirl23, RealHousewivesOfDiagonAlley, loverofironbull, 2_for_a_penny, Goreana, tifalockheart27, melsivson, tikkitavvii, RheaSalvatore, nachosandjazz, loveL, AutumnGravity, mollyringworm10, Hystaracal, lamiaLuna36, and 17 guests. Which I graciously accept on behalf of Granger and myself.”  
> “You don’t ‘graciously’ do anything.”  
> “Perhaps I’ll surprise you one day.”


	9. The One With The Art Of Tea

“Good evening Potter,” Draco’s silky tones said. “May I come in?”

“By all means Malfoy,” Harry sourly acquiesced, stepping aside so Draco could enter his house, “we were just talking about you.”

“All bad things I hope,” Draco mocked. He carefully stepped past Harry, eyeing Harry’s wand with obvious distrust.

Harry noticed Draco’s look and quickly pocketed his wand.

“Do come through,” Harry bitingly offered, “the girls are in the kitchen.”

 

“Draco,” Hermione snapped as soon as he entered the kitchen, “what are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you,” Draco replied and just for a second Hermione swore there was a flash of concern in his grey eyes. “Mrs Potter,” Draco said and politely inclined his head to Ginny.

“Malfoy,” Ginny greeted, her ruddy eyebrows raised in a challenging arc. “Would you care to tell me how you managed to get Hermione to see past your ferret like nature and agree to marry you?”

“Well,” Draco addressed Ginny, but his gaze lingered on Hermione’s pensive face, “I’d _love_ to show you, but I think Potter might object.”

“I hope you are not talking about what I think you are,” Harry cautioned, placing a hand on his wife’s slim shoulder.

“I do apologise,” Draco smoothed, “Hermione’s presence hasn’t ironed out all the flaws in my character…yet.”

Harry grunted. “Tea Malfoy?”

“Why yes,” Draco cheerily accepted.

 

Draco slunk down into the chair beside Hermione and casually looped his arm over her tense shoulders. Ginny watched his action and clicked her tongue reproachfully, like a mother hen.

“I presume Hermione has been filling you in on _all_ the details,” Draco said to Ginny.

“Not all of them,” Ginny piped. “But she did manage to cover that your both getting married on Monday.”

“I know, very quick and all that,” Draco said. He took Hermione’s spoon out of her hand and dipped it in her ice cream.

“What flavour, love?” He asked Hermione.

Hermione was floored for a second by Draco referring to her as ‘love’, but managed to reply: “Mango.”

Hermione watched, in fascination, as he slid the spoon into his mouth. His eyes closed slight as he licked the spoon clean. His pink tongue thrust out and stroked his bottom lip, catching the remaining cream. As Draco’s tongue languidly brushed the corner of his mouth, Hermione let out a shaky breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.

Ginny gave a small interfering cough.

“Try and keep it in your pants, the pair of you,” the red head scolded.

Hermione blushed at Ginny’s comment. Her eye’s left Draco’s face and she concentrated on the wooden grain of the table top.

“I can’t help it Mrs Potter,” Draco said, and Hermione could hear the smirk in his tone, “I have a weakness for ice-cream.”

“My ice-cream isn’t _that_ good Malfoy,” Ginny chided. “I’d be a rich woman _if_ it was,” she muttered.

 

Before Draco could riposte, Harry noisily dropped a mug of tea in front of Malfoy, the brown liquid sloshed over the sides and pooled around the base of the cup.

Draco tilted his head to examine the dripping mug. Hermione watched his eyebrows raise and a glint of mischief enter his eye. Printed on the side of the cup was a photograph of Harry and Ginny on their wedding day. The Potter’s smiling faces shone in the kitchen light, their youthful happiness apparent even in the low quality of the photograph.

Harry’s displeasure at having Malfoy in his home was obvious in his possessive choice of porcelain.

“I never thought the day would come when I’d be drinking out of your face Potter,” Draco suggestively said and delicately picked up the sopping cup. 

Harry groaned and grabbed the mug out of Draco’s hand.

“Why do you have to make everything filthy?” Harry cried.

 

Harry carried the mug to the sink and picking up one of the tea cups, from the set that Hermione had given him, Harry deposited Malfoy’s milky tea into the new vessel.

“Here,” Harry said, thrusting the new cup under Draco’s nose. “Drink and get out.”

Draco took a cautious sip of the tea, grimacing at the taste.

“Potter, you make an appalling cup of tea. Has anyone ever told you that?” Draco asked, lowing the teacup onto the table.

Harry looked affronted.

“Now listen here Malfoy-“ Harry started to say, when Ginny, unexpectedly, cut him off.

“I’m sorry Harry, but I have to agree with him. You have many fine qualities, but your tea making isn’t one of them,” Ginny confessed.

“Do you all feel this way?” Harry asked, his mouth open in shock.

“Sorry Harry,” Hermione said, gesturing to her barely drunk tea.

Draco rose from his chair and walked over to Harry.

“Come on Potter,” Draco amicably said, patting Harry on the back, “I’ll teach you how to brew a cup of tea that will have your wife swooning.”

 

Ginny and Hermione watched appreciatively, as Draco taught Harry how to correctly brew tea.

“Do you have a tea strainer?” Draco asked as he swirled fresh boiling water round the teapot.

“A what?” Harry asked, bewildered.

Draco sighed and pulled out his wand.

“ _Accio_ tea strainer.”

A drawer on the far side of the kitchen banged open and a small tea strainer floated across the room and landed in Draco’s outstretched hand.

“Oh, that’s what a tea strainer is,” Harry said, “I thought that was something for cooking fish?”

“Cooking fish!” Draco yelled, “You’d better wash this,” he waved the metal strainer at Harry, “I am not going to be drinking fishy tasting tea.”

 

“This is odd,” Ginny muttered to Hermione.

“Tell me about it,” Hermione agreed, her eyes never leaving the fairer of the two men. “I mean Malfoy actually knows how to make proper British tea?”

Ginny threw her a funny look.

“No, what I’m finding more strange is that no one has ended up in St Mungo’s.”

 

“Why did you throw away that water,” Harry yelled at Draco, “it was fine as it was, in the teapot!”

“Oh Merlin Potter,” Draco yelled back, exasperated, “You have to warm and swill the pot before you put the fresh tea in.”

 

“I won’t deny,” Ginny continued, “I would be grateful if Malfoy does teach Harry how to make tea. Harry’s cups always taste like a combination of socks and-“

“Dishwater,” Hermione finished. 

 

“Now, once we have warmed and cleaned the pot, what do you do next?” Draco lectured Harry.

“Put more water in?”

“No. We add the tea leaves before the boiling water.”

“Then pour.”

“We leave it to brew for three minutes. Only pour it now if you want it to taste like sewage,” Draco corrected. “Really Potter,” Draco said, astounded, “how did you get through tea leaves in Divination?”

“Ron was my partner,” Harry said, and then added a tad begrudgingly, “he never complained about my tea.”

“This explains many things,” Draco lamented.

 

“You know, they look quite good standing there,” Ginny conspiratorially commented to Hermione. “We’ve got an excellent view from here.” She nodded, appreciatively, at her husband’s arse.

“That’s my best friend!”

“What?” Ginny coyly asked. “I’ve been watching you Hermione Granger. Your eyes keep straying down to Malfoy’s bu-“

“Gin!”

“Don’t be such a prude,” chided Ginny, “you must have seen Malfoy naked by now?’

“No I haven’t,” Hermione blurted.

“Now that, I find hard to believe. Draco ‘ _I’m going to whore myself about all of London_ ’ Malfoy hasn’t got you into bed.”

“It wasn’t all of London,” Hermione hotly defended.

“Fine, all of London a part from you.”

“Some of us hold ourselves to higher values,” Hermione primly said.

“Ah, that explains the sexual chemistry then,” Ginny said, tapping her chin with her index finger.

“What sexual chemistry? There is no sexual anything.”

“You can’t kid me. I’m a married woman. I can tell these things,” Ginny confidently quoted. “Anyway,” she fixed Hermione with a piercing stare, “there’s nothing wrong with you and Malfoy having sexual chemistry. You’re getting married; desire should be there.”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione mumbled, her face heating up from the blunder she’d made, “you’re right, of course.”

Hermione got the impression that Ginny would have questioned her further, if at that moment, Draco hadn’t placed two cups of steamy tea before them.

“Ladies,” Draco smarmed, “tea is served.”

 

“Take me to bed lover,” Ginny dramatically said to Harry once she’d finished her tea, “I do believe I’m swooning.” Harry’s chest perceptively puffed with pride.

Hermione smiled behind the rim of her cup. Ginny was right: it really had been an excellent cup of tea.

“See Potter, if you get the art of tea right then the world is your oyster,” Draco said, taking a sip from his own cup.

“I never thought the day would come,” Ginny announced, “but thank you Malfoy.”

“You’re very welcome Mrs Potter.” Draco winked at Ginny.

“Malfoy, stop flirting with my wife,” Harry commanded, but there was no animosity in his tone.

“Habitual tendency,” Draco excused.

“Just as long as my wife doesn’t experience anymore of your ‘tendencies’ then we’re alright,” Harry stiffly replied.

“I think you’d better take Malfoy home,” Ginny said, giggling, to Hermione.

Ginny got up and walked towards Harry. She placed her hand on his chest and whispered something into his ear, causing him to smile.

 

From the hushed mummers of Ginny and the glazed expression taking over Harry’s face, Hermione could tell that she and Malfoy had been quite forgotten.

“We should head off,” Malfoy said, watching the Potter’s with considerable amusement.

Hermione mutely nodded. Her chest felt heavy and she didn’t think she could speak, not even to rebuke Malfoy. The loving interactions of Harry and Ginny often took her breath away,leaving her feeling paradoxically hollow and weighty at the same time. She gave a shiver, as if she’d stepped out into a chill breeze without her coat.

 

“Come on Granger” Draco rallied, taking her arm and coaxing her to stand, “we ought to get our beauty sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

Hermione turned her back on the otherwise engaged Ginny and Harry.

“I don’t know what your planning,” Hermione quietly said to Draco, as he helped her into her outer robe. “But I’m going to work in the morning.”

“And now you’re spending the day with me,” Draco corrected.

“I need to run my business.”

“Hire someone.”

She took his arm and dragged him into the entrance hall of the Potter’s house.

 

“I can’t afford an employee,” she whispered, checking that Harry and Ginny were out of sight.

“Yes you can. I’ll give you an advance on the money I promised,” Draco said, and opened the front door. “You’ll be getting it in a few days anyhow.”

She was tempted. Having an extra pair of hands round the place would be incredibly useful, especially as Malfoy seemed set on monopolising all her time.

“How can I hire someone for tomorrow?” she said, trying to find a snag in his plan,

Draco left the front door open, but moved to the Potter’s small writing desk in the entrance hall. He took hold of a quill, that was lying forlornly on the table, and scribbled a quick note on a scrap of parchment.

“Got a couple of Galleons?” he asked her as he twisted the parchment into a scroll.

She fished out two grubby coins.

“Good,” Draco said, shoving the discs into the paper scroll. “Now we’ll just borrow Potter’s owl and send this over to _The Daily Prophet_. They can have an advert in the morning edition.”

“But-“

“Hey Potter,” Draco yelled, “can Hermione borrow your owl?”

There was a muffled giggle from the kitchen and the crash of the chair being knocked over.

“Sounds like Potter is a bit busy,” Draco dry commented. “We’ll borrow the owl anyway. I’m sure he won’t have a problem. Not with the night _he’s_ in for.”

 

Draco briskly took her arm and lead her outside. He left her to shut the door, as he made his way over to the small owlary Harry had built by the garden gate.

“Hey birdy,” Draco cooed to Harry’s owl, a light coloured Tawny. “Up for a quickie?”

“Draco are you seriously using a chat up line on an owl?” Hermione asked, stomping over to him.

“I flirt with everything Granger,” Draco muttered. “Nice girl,” he said to the owl, as she lifted her leg and allowed him to tie on the scroll. She hopped onto Draco’s outstretched arm and he launched her into the sky.

Hermione was left wondering why _every_ female Draco encountered seemed totally comfortable getting her leg over him.

 

“All sorted,” he said, watching the owl vanish into the night. “They’ll be breaking down your door to work with _The_ Hermione Granger.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Your face is splashed over every magazine and publication,” Draco reminded. “Mine is too, of course; but the public is much less interested in me. You’ll have plenty of applicants to choose from.” He rubbed his hands together. “How about we get to bed?”

“I’m going to my own bed, alone” Hermione firmly said.

“Absolutely.”

“We’ll be going _alone_ to our respective beds,” she clarified, frowning at his mischievous expression. There was something familiar in arguing with Malfoy; the ease of their bickering swept gloomy thoughts from her head, like a mental spring cleaning.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He smirked.

 

In the moonlight Draco’s hair was even whiter; platinum blonde streaked with silver threads. His sharp cheek bones stood more pronounced, as the shallow light cut shadows under his cheeks and jaw.

“I don’t suppose,” Draco casually began, “you fancy getting a drink? While tea was fine, I could do with something stronger. I also want you to fill me in on this evening's events with Mr and Mrs Potter. It went far too smoothly for my peace of mind.”

He saw the indecision on her face.

“What about bed?”

“If you insist Granger.”

“You know what I mean.”

“On my wand,” he said, resting his hand on his chest, “I shall deliver you home safe and sound.”

Hermione looked past Draco and up into the sky. The moon hung, full and low; the pearly planes reminding her of a crystal ball. Hermione disliked all forms of fortune telling, but right now she could do with a little insight into her own foggy future.

She looked into Draco’s almost hopeful expression and felt herself relenting…It wasn’t that late after all.

“Fine,” she caved. "But don’t surprise me with _The Ritz_ like last time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Hermione angled her body and reached down to retrieved her wand from her thigh garter. The holster was made of black lace and snuggly fitted against her mid thigh; she’d adapted it from a Muggle garter. She thought nothing of it as she slipped her robes up her leg to reach for the wand, but she paused when she heard Draco gasp.

“What’s the matter?” she anxiously asked, straightening and flourishing the length of wood into the night. She peered into the milky darkness, but she couldn’t see anyone or anything.

“I wish you’d warn me,” he breathily moaned.

“Warn you about what?” she asked, annoyed. She lowered her wand, sure that there was no impending danger.

“When you’re going to-“ he gestured to her wand. “Oh _nothing_ ,” Draco said with a resigned sigh.

 

“Harry has fairly strong apparation wards,” Hermione said, ignoring Draco’s weird behaviour, “but if we walk two-hundred yards it should be out of range and able to appara-“

“We’re not going to apparate,” Draco asserted. He shook his head, his blond hair falling in front of his eyes like yellow ribbons fluttering in the wind.

“But how else shall we get there? The pub’s floo is closed and Harry is-“

“Otherwise occupied,” Draco finished. “Yes I know.”

“Then how?”

“Have a little faith Granger,” Draco said and suddenly snatched Hermione’s wand from her hand. He twirled the wood like a cheerleaders baton.

“Malfoy! Give me back my wand!” she yelled and immediately rushed towards him, her arms outstretched.

Draco quickly hid her wand in the recesses of his dark robes.

“You’re very welcome to come and search me for your wand,” he evocatively challenged. “But I warn you, I may get _very_ excited.”

Hermione paused, a hare’s breath away from Malfoy’s chest. Draco was still staring down at her, his blonde eyebrows flecked in an alarmingly seductive way. She lowered her arms and swung them back and forth in a frustrated manner.

 

“Don’t worry about your wand Granger.” Draco relented and wrapped an arm round her waist. “We can fly.”

“Fly!”

“On a broom,” Draco spelt out. He pointed to a sleek looking broom that was leaning against the wooden fence.

“You planned this didn’t you?” She angrily prodded him in the chest.

“How else was I going to get you on my broom?”

“I should snap your wand, you lying cad.”

“Oh Granger, I’d rather you did other things to my wand.”

“You!“

She open and closed her hands, her finger’s itching for the familiar feel of her wand. Or to strangle Malfoy’s pale neck.

“Yell at me later.”

 

Draco grasped his broom and swung his leg over.

“Hop on,” he said with an encouraging smile. “Unless you want to knock on the Potter’s door and _interrupt_ them?”

Hermione winced. No, she certainly didn’t want to interrupt the them now. She felt her eyesight might not ever recover.

Draco’s mouth broke into a broad grin as Hermione reluctantly slid onto the broom behind him.

“Put your hands around me,” he advised her. “As you know, I’m not a slow rider.”

Draco gunned the magic and the broom levitated upwards. Without stopping to think, Hermione wrapped her arms round his torso.

“I hate you Draco Malfoy, I hope you know that,” she coarsely whispered in his ear.

Draco chuckled as he urged the broom higher into the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco stood in front of the shop’s mirror, surveying his striking figure.  
> “You know,” he said to the author, “I think tartan suits me.”  
> “I whole heartedly agree,” the author said, also admiring Draco’s form in Scottish Highland dress.  
> His broad shoulders were snuggly fitted into a double breasted jacket, around his trim waist was a tartan kilt the pleated length of which ended just above his knees.  
> “But what is this thing?” Draco reached down to his groin area and lifted a small fur bag.  
> “A sporran. It’s a kind of bag.”  
> “A bag?” Draco repeated, “So I have a furry bag resting against my groin?”  
> “I imagine you’ve had much worse things your groin Malfoy.”  
> “Touché.”  
> “Even the socks suit you,” the author admitted, watching as the knee high socks tightened around Draco’s flexing calf muscles.  
> “I could get used to this,” Draco said, brushing his large hands down the side of the kilt, “It is ever so roomy around my private pa-“  
> “Too much information.”  
> He grinned and lowered a hand to the sporran and opened it. He pulled out a piece of paper.  
> “I’m sure the dear readers wouldn’t mind finding out what’s under the kilt,” Draco drawled.  
> The author gulped.  
> “Anyway, let me get on with the important bit: the thanks. I asked and I received. Mòran taing for your enthusiastic response,” he drawled.  
> Draco unfolded the paper and scanned the page. “My, my,” he said, his voice raspy and deep, “you all deserve such praise. Thank you: Callidora, Reine, Jezz, Joey99, Dark-Supernatural-Angel, Thekit10666, ditt3, Zelealicious2, blukeyedsue, tx_ladj, Bnicole, mlleB, Mellifera, MorgannaBlack, Barklarky, ForksInTheRoad, SialDearie, Aktweetypi for their comments. And now the excellent kudos: llovechocolate34, roseirondoctor, Lissygray, Sirens_song144,Charmingpuma287, AminaSchroeder21, rodas97, The101RedKiku,CB333, IceCreamAndRainyDays, Lunavert, minerva777, Cadenza_Fire, omj319, Fiona_var, Bibliophilic_Wit, makarasMageofBlood, WinterLanding and 24 guests."  
> Draco lowered the paper and surveyed the readers. "It is certainly a case of the more the merrier. Do feel free to show you appreciation in any way you...desire."


	10. The One With a Malfoy, a Witch and a Broomstick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of the chapter. I’ve been tinkering with it all week.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. OH MY GOD. AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“For Merlin’s saggy balls sake! Will you stop screaming!” Draco yelled at Hermione, as he swerved the broom around a cloud. The cloud was dingy grey in the moonlight, pregnant with rain. The edge caught the side of Hermione’s face and the candy-floss like air chilled her.

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

“I think I’ve gone deaf.”

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

“No I was mistaken,” he shouted, his tone as sardonic as a low mutter, “I heard that piercing cry perfectly.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”  
“Your screaming is distracting. If you continue to distract me I might loose control of the broom,” Draco darkly threatened.

“AAAA- What! Lose control!” Hermione said, the remnant of the scream clear in her high pitch tone.

“Thank the lord. _Silence_.”

“Draco are you serious? Have you lost control? Are we going to die?”

“No I only said that to-“

“I don’t want to die! I’m too young. There are so many books I haven’t read.”

“Of course you’d angst over books.”

“What else would I think of?”

“I don’t know! Maybe places you haven’t been, spells you haven’t mastered, or even shags you haven’t had?”

“But I’ve already been to Paris,” Hermione announced.

 

Hermione readjusted her grip on Draco’s body. Her arms were fastened around his chest, which was as firm and as muscled as she’d suspected. Her legs were spread and wrapped over Draco’s, as she desperately purchased herself on his body. Normally she would have been appalled at the sensuality of her embrace; but as the ground rushed beneath them like a rapid green river, she found she couldn’t bring herself to be embarrassed.

“Seriously Granger,” Draco said. "You’ve been clinging to me like a tree for over half an hour. Have you not once thought of…” He glanced back at her.

“Eyes on the sky Draco!”

 

Draco whipped his head around and her vision was once again taken up by the back of his blonde head. The tips of his hair tickled her nose, feathering her skin like the coquettish edge of a Marie Antoinette style fan.She tucked her head into his back, settling her cheek between his shoulder blades. She took a steadying breath, letting her nostrils fill with the smell of Malfoy. Even in the skin shattering wind, Hermione could still pick up the traces of Draco’s scent: sandalwood soap, dried parchment and a note of burning timber. She pressed her nose closer, burying her face in the thick material of his robes. She felt Draco’s back stiffen, the muscles in his shoulders rippled and tensed. _Was he uncomfortable with her closeness?_ _Well if her touch makes him balk_ , she tartly thought, _he shouldn’t have made her fly on his ridiculously fast broomstick then_.

 

“Malfoy?” Hermione agitatedly said.

“Yes Granger, dear,” Malfoy cooed back, an undertone of irritability clear in his deep voice.

“Please tell me we’re almost there?” There was a horridly familiar bubbling in her stomach, that not even the delicious scent of Malfoy could dissipate. _Damn him._

“Very soon.”

“That’s good,” Hermione breathed, “because I think I might be sick.”

“Shit.” Draco immediately slowed the speed of the broom. “I implore you to aim for the ground and not the back of my head.”

“I won’t make any promises.”

“On second thoughts don’t talk. Keep your mouth closed.”

 

Draco tilted the broom, gently angling the stick downwards and towards the earth. Hermione peered downwards and saw that Draco was aiming for a flat roof, an incongruous space between the spiky rooftops. He’d ridden them back to London, or wizarding London to be correct. From her aerial advantage Hermione could see the difference between the two worlds. Muggle London reminded her of a funfair; with the glittering mass of coloured electric lights that outlined the square foundations of tower blocks. In contrast, wizarding London seemed archaic. The darkness of Diagon Alley was only broken by the soft flicker of candles and lamps, undulating in the night like uncanny spirits.

 

He landed the boom with a light thump, causing Hermione’s hands to settle on his broad back. _Only to steady herself_ , she thought, _not at all to feel his toned physique one last time._

“How do you feel?” he asked her, his voice as tight and as strained as the muscles under her fingers.

“Better,” she conceded. She lowered her hands from his body and let them fall uselessly to her sides. “Where are we?” At one end of the flat rooftop was a brick wall, the only ornament was a lit iron lamp.

“ _The Silver Asp_. It’s a bar, a rather exclusive bar,” Draco informed.

“You’d never dream of frequenting a simple pub would you?” she dryly commented. She stamped her feet a few times trying to get some life back into her stiff limbs.

Draco ignored her and walked to the brick wall. From the single lamp, Draco’s shadow stretched and crawled towards her, consuming the ground like some stalking midnight beast.

 

After propping his broomstick against the wall, Draco then took out his wand and drew a complicated symbol. Hermione realised the symbol must have been a password, because the moment Draco lowered his wand a door started to raise its self through the bricks. As Hermione drew closer she could see the door was becoming clearer: the patterns of the brickwork became panels of wood and discrepancies in the mortar became iron rivets. The large oak door stood solidly before them, as if it had always been there.

“ _The Silver Asp_ , seems a very Slytherin name,” Hermione commented, eyeing the door with a Gothic heroine’s suspicion.

Draco turned the gargoyle-like door knob. “Not just Slytherins. We’ve been known to take in the occasional Ravenclaw too.”

“We?”  
“I own it with Blaise Zabini.” He pushed the door open and light spilled into the night. “Come on in Granger.”

 

“This is not what I expected?” Hermione said as Draco led her into _The Silver Asp_. The bar was small with wood panelled walls and dark leather chairs. Hermione felt the bar gave the impression of a Medieval hunting lodge, rather than a Slytherin hideout.

“And what did you expect?” Draco asked.

Their appearance in the bar did not cause a stir. Nobody looked their way, no one stopped their conversations to stare, in fact no one seemed to care that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were there. The lack of attention was disquieting. All day Hermione had been bothered by the stares and whispers that followed in her wake. _Maybe she would like this place after all_.

 

“More of a dungeon feel,” Hermione replied. “Something similar to the Slytherin common room.”

“A dungeon? I’m sure I could find some whips and chains if that would make you feel better? I know I left some torture devices lying around somewhere.” She gave Draco a wry look. “I’m serious Granger,” Draco affirmed. “That was one a wild party.”

“Well look with the cat dragged in,” a deep voice called. A young man strolled confidently towards them, as if he owned the place. His dark face beautifully etched and the glowing light from the hearth turned his ebony skin copper. His eyes were slanted and almond in shape and colour.His nose was long and straight, like a cat, and gave him the appearance that he was always looking down at you. Hermione noticed that the young man’s cheekbones were higher than Draco’s but more feminine in appearance, like an ethereal model on a catwalk rather than a person you could touch and hold. _Like Malfoy_ , a conspiratorial voice called from the back of her mind. _Where in the world had that come from?_

 

“Now Zabini don’t talk about my fiancee that way,” Draco said, slapping the dark young man’s arm in a convivial way.

“I wasn’t,” the young man challenged. “Miss Granger is far too attractive to be dragged anywhere,” he briefly turned his almond-like eyes on her. “But you on the other hand Malfoy… So, I have to find out that my business partner and best friend is getting married from _The Daily Prophet_?”

_Business partner? This must be Blaise Zabini. No wonder he easily held his own against Malfoy._

“How was the article?” Draco asked Zabini.

“Sickening. Rita was waffling on about the ‘light of love’ in your eyes, which apparently ‘shined like the sky on a midsummers day’,” Zabini quoted, his long arms waving dramatically.

“I do have rather striking eyes,” Draco mused and obnoxiously grinned at Zabini. “May I reintroduce you to my fiancee? Blaise this is Hermione Granger, my future wife and best friend of Harry Potter- who I just had tea with.”

“You. Tea. Harry Potter.” Zabini looked dumbfounded.

“And Hermione this is Blaise Zabini, my best man and my business part-“  
“Partner?” Blaise scoffed. “I’m the only one who does any work around this place!”

“And you do it splendidly,” Draco said.

“Your best man?” Blaise asked, picking up on Draco's earlier point.

“Who else would I ask to be my second?”

“Wait…doesn’t the best man have to marry the bride if you chicken out? I could live with that.” Blaise gleefully nudged Draco.

“Hands off Zabini.” Draco scowled. “Your duties do not extend beyond standing there and looking pretty.”

“Now that’s a job I can do very well.” Blaise held out his hand to Hermione. Hermione took his hand with the intention of shaking it, but Blaise turned her hand over and brushed his lips over the back of it. “Charmed,” he whispered to her.

“Kindly try not to flirt with my fiancee,” Draco growled and grabbed Hermione’s hand away from Blaise.

Blaise just smirked at Draco’s possessive attitude. _If only Zabini knew it was because of a signature on a napkin, and not because Malfoy actually cared for her_. “Can I offer the happy couple a drink?”

“Kindly,” Hermione replied. Draco audibly ground his teeth.

 

Blaise graciously offered Hermione a barstool. Hermione sat and curled her fingers around the cool steel of the seat. Draco slipped into the chair beside her.

Blaise moved behind to tend the bar, next to another young barman. The bar was large and made of one huge piece of wood, it looked like someone had cut a tree lengthwise and then varnished it. Behind the bar was a meticulously ordered collection of bottles and decanters. Hermione could pick out a few wizards names, but she was surprised to see most of the bar’s contents were recognisably Muggle alcohol. She asked Draco about the Muggle bottles.

 

“Wizards have a very limited brewery industry,” Draco explained. “It’s a bit like what I said last night, wizards are complacent; we’ve barely advanced in the past hundred years. Same with our alcohol, although that spans a few more centuries.”

“And you’re alright with drinking non-magic alcohol?” Hermione asked, the surprised clear in her brown eyes.

“At first I was sceptical,” Draco said, rubbing the back of his neck. “After the war I got a taste for Firewhisky. Firewhisky is great if you want your toes to feel charred, but you can’t sit there and think over a Firewhisky.”

“You thinking? Is that wise,” Hermione smilingly interjected.

Blaise laughed. “Yes, don’t hurt yourself _thinking_ too much Draco.”

“There isn’t much chance of that,” Hermione said, chuckling.

Draco glared at Blaise and then moved his piercing stare to Hermione.

 

“She’s got the measure of you Malfoy.” Blaise poured some amber liquid into a cut crystal tumbler. “Drink,” he said, pushing the glass over the bar, towards Hermione.

“Close your eyes,” Draco advised, “the vapours will sting your eyes.”

Hermione agreed; she could smell the strong spirits from here. Shutting her eyes, she placed the glass to her lips and sipped at the whisky. It burnt. She wanted to cough, but she bit down refusing to choke in front of the two Slytherins.

“Bushmills, Twenty-One years. Smooth as silk, until you get the smoky punch at the end,” Blaise said, an admiring note in his voice.

“That was smooth?” Hermione rasped.

“You’ve got her drinking your Irish swill?” Draco cried.

“It’s not swill,” Blaise defended. “What did you think?” he asked Hermione.

She took another sip. This second sip was easier, the first having numbed her tongue sufficiently. “It’s like drinking a tingle.” A laugh burst from between her lips.

“A tingle?” Draco huskily said.

“Yes. I couldn’t tell you what it tastes of, but it feels like a liquid tingle,” she repeated.

“Maybe the Irish can do something right with whisky.” Draco chuckled.

“Being an Englishman by birth, if not heritage,” Blaise winked at Hermione, in a manner that reminded her of Draco, “I resent admitting that the Scottish or the Irish do anything better than us. But in the case of whisky I am afraid the English lag leagues behind.” Draco derisively snorted. “Draco is more of a Scotch man,” Blaise informed her, “but I prefer the triple finesse of an Irish brew.”

“The Irish lack taste,” Draco said.

“No, you just haven’t developed your palette enough to taste the subtleties. If it doesn’t burn down to your belly you don’t want it.”

“Fine, give me a Johnny Walker Eighteen then.”

“The only good whisky Walker ever produced,” said Blaise.

“Blaise is a whisky snob,” Draco audibly whispered to Hermione, “don’t get him started on Jack Daniels.”

“ _Americans,_ ” Blaise muttered and tipped the scotch into another tumbler.

“Bourbon cocktails however?” Draco reminded.

“Alright, they are pretty good,” Blaise begrudgingly said. He passed Draco his own drink.

 

Blaise purposefully waited until Draco had taken his first sip, then asked Hermione, “So how did he win you over Miss Granger?”

_Would she ever be free of that question?_

“I-“

Blaise cut her off, “I’m curious, as he’s been mooning over you for years.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Malfoy.

Draco quickly swallowed. “Don’t believe a word he says Hermione. Blaise deludes himself into thinking that young women want to hear what he has to say.”

“Whereas, Malfoy is just deluded,” replied Blaise. Someone down the other end of the bar waved to get Blaise’s attention. “Excuse me. _One of us_ has to work to keep this bar going.” He gave Draco a scathing look and swaggered over to the customer.

 

“Zabini’s a prickly git,” Draco said, tipping his glass in Blaise’s direction. “I think the only reason he’s behind the bar is that it’s the only way people will listen to his whisky prattle.”

“He’s obviously changed since school,” Hermione said, choosing her words carefully. She wished to avoid any more mentions of the war.

“We either adapt or die out,” Draco dryly summarised. “Booze might not have been the best place to start cultivating an interest in Muggles, but better late than never.” Before she could ask about how he’d developed an interest in Muggles, he continued, “Speaking of adapting, the Potter’s were surprisingly placid this evening.”

 

Hermione gave Draco a run down of her visit to Harry’s, skimming over her argument with Ron.

“So I take it Weasley doesn’t wish us joy?” Draco said once she’d finished.

“It’s complicated,” she sighed.

“More complicated that what we have?”

“We don’t have anything Malfoy.”

“Other than marriage,” he said with aggravating elegance. “I still don’t understand how Potter and She-Potter were so calm?” Hermione groaned and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Hermione?”

“It’s because,” she took a sip of whisky, “they believed me. They believe I’m in love with you. They’d never dream that I would do something like this,” another sip, “unless I was in love.” _God, that hurt to say_. But the whisky was quick to numb the pain as well as her mouth. “After I rejected Ron’s proposal-”

“Weasley proposed to you!”

She winced; _she’d intended to bypass the topic of Ron’s botched proposal_.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she said. “We were at one time in love.”

“I wasn’t surprised that he proposed. I am just surprised you said no.”

“He was drunk.” There was more, but she didn’t feel like towing Ron through the proverbial mud.

“Ah, so not the romantic proposal a young Miss Granger imagined?”

“No. And now I’m getting married to you. The man who proposed marriage with a napkin.”

“Serviette.”

“Whatever.” She cupped her chin in one hand.

 

“How would you have wanted to be proposed to?” The question seemed innocent, but Hermione could sense the weight of expectation behind Draco’s query.

“Flowers; chocolates; champagne,” she listed, answering him half-heartedly.

“Cut the sappy bull,” Draco said, “we both know that sentimental rubbish doesn’t matter to you.”

She glared at him, the whisky fogging her vision and causing Draco’s sharp features to blur.

“I wanted to at least be in love, and for the question to be asked with a sober mind.“ She barked a laugh. “Between my two proposals I got that: Ron was in love but drunk and you were sober but indifferent.”

“I wasn’t completely sober. And I’m certainly not indifferent.”

"You're not in love though!”

"You don't want me to love you Granger.” His voice lowered to a persuasive drawl. “I’m a selfish bastard, and I wouldn’t love: I would consume.” The candlelight suddenly flickered casting Draco’s features into shadowy relief. Hermione’s rational mind knew that the fluttering candles were caused by the bar’s door being opened, but she couldn’t help the eerie thrill of the timing. She heard the bar’s door close behind the newly arrived patron and the candles settled once more, the light fixed back onto Draco’s skin touching his pale complexion with golden hues.

 

“What did Blaise mean by you ‘mooning’ over me?” she inquired with fake idleness.

“Blaise doesn’t know what he’s talking about half the time.” He shrugged, the movement drawing her eye to the sloping expanse of his shoulders. _Would the skin of his body be as pale as his face?_

“He seemed very sure,” she pressed.

Draco didn’t reply straight away. Instead he reached for the bottle of Johnny Walker Blaise had left on the bar. Draco uncorked it with a pop and sloshed the liquid into his empty glass and then into her’s. He took a gulp, swallowing half the glass like a man dying of thirst.

“You’ve grown into a very beguiling witch Hermione Granger,” Draco said, his voice roughened from the drink. “Your eyes, they’re like whisky.”

“What a line.”

“Seriously. Look,” Draco turned the whisky his glass, creating a slight whirlpool effect. “Look at the colours, at the malted brown, the burnished umber, and then,” he flicked the tumbler, causing the whisky to translucently climb the crystal, “watch how the liquid dances.” Hermione watched the drink richly trickle down the glass, the amber colour flickering to gold in the candle light. “That’s how your eyes look. Every time you stare me out.”

 

She stared at him now. Or at least she _tried_ to stare. The whisky and dim lighting of the bar must be playing with her eyes, because she could swear that Malfoy’s expression was one of _desire_? Hot, blazing, and intensely male desire.

She took another drink, the burning alcohol a welcome distraction from _the look_ Malfoy was giving her. She felt the heat now, working down her throat and into her belly. That softening heat that comes with alcohol. The one that warms your limbs and relaxes your tongue. But _this_ heat was spreading lower, curling over her pelvis and settling, like a deep ache, between her thighs. _Uh oh!_

Hermione went to push her glass away, out of temptations reach, but she found there was no need: it already was empty. She saw Draco take note of her empty glass, however he made no motion to refill it. Instead, he tipped his head back and drank the rest of his drink. His exposed neck was like an alabaster column: long, creamy and beautifully carved. She watched, mesmerised, as swallowing caused his Adam’s apple to bob and neck to flex.

 

He lowered the glass, his fingernails rapping on the cool crystal. He gave her a long appraising look. She could feel the blush rising to her face, she dared not dream what shade her eyes might be. Probably the colour of a forest fire. 

“Now we know how you look Granger,” Draco said. “We move to taste. Ah, the taste - Blaise is right, I don’t have a refined palette- but I can only guess what you’d taste like,” he whispered. “Probably sweet, but with a hidden depth of bitter smokiness. Each sip would reveal a new layer to your blend: cinnamon; cardamon; coffee. A man could get drunk on you.”

_Was it getting stuffy in here?_

“Until I'd have you bare before me, each intoxicating layer fusing together to be essentially _you_.”

_He was still talking about whisky, right?_

“And I just can’t help but get a tingle.”

He was correct; he _would_ consume her. _And be damned, she was tempted to hand him the spoon._

“Maybe your eyes were always _this_ dazzling,” Draco said, softly, “I’ve just never been close enough to see.”

 

“Can I get you both another?” Blaise said, the smirk clear in his voice. _Bugger off Zabini._

“Zabini, your timing is impeccable,” Draco said, knocking his knuckled on the bar in a frustrated rap. Blaise maintained his white smile. He knew he’d interrupted something. “We’re off. Add the bill to my tab,” Draco announced. His voice was still deep but it held none of the enthralling darkness it had earlier.

“A tab you intend to pay?”

“Of course. A Malfoy never leaves a debt.”

“Or much whisky left,” Blaise said, noticing the depleted bottle of Johnny Walker.

“We shared.”

“I can see,” Blaise said, and Hermione wondered what exactly he could see? _Could he see her heated cheeks, or the way her breathing was rapidly becoming a pant, or the way her skin felt like it was on fire?_ If that annoying smile was anything to go by then Blaise Zabini could see for miles.

 

“Until the wedding Miss Granger,” Blaise said to her and kissed the back of her hand again, “I’m sure you will make a beautiful bride.” Draco’s throat made a funny growling sound. “Calm yourself Malfoy,” Blaise said, “it’s an innocent touch.”

“You are hardly innocent,” Draco bit back.

“Neither are you my friend.” Blaise’s smile, if possible, grew wider. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Come on Hermione,” Draco said, pressing a hand into the small of her back, “before I feel the need to wipe that smug expression of Blaise’s face.”

“Like you could!”

 

Draco grasped his broom off the wall. The door of _The Silver Asp_ already disappearing into the brick work.

“Let me escort you home,” Draco said.

“I can walk.” _She could do with the walk_ , she thought, _some chilly night air to help sooth her nerves…and body._

“Oh no, I’m not having my fiancee wandering about Diagon Alley on her own. You never know what scoundrel you could meet.”

“I think I’m already with the biggest scoundrel of them all.”

“I’m practically harmless, like a kitten. A fluffy, adorable, meowing kitten.” He pulled a face, which she had a feeling he thought was cute. It wasn’t. Instead, it was rather smouldering.

“With claws,” said Hermione.

“Tiny claws.”

“And the need to be potty trained.”

“Ah-“

“You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t want to scratch your belly.”

Draco gasped, as if someone had winded him.

“Are you alright?” she asked, laying a worrying hand on his arm.

“I’ve just never wanted a girl to scratch my stomach before,” Draco replied, suggestiveness hanging off every word.

Hermione was going to scoff and turn away, but before she could Draco took her hand and pulled her onto the broom.

“Malfoy, will you stop manhandling me,“ she yelled, feeling like this was a repeat of earlier in the evening. “Every time you get the chance you’re hauling me onto your broomstick.”

“Needs must.”

“Surely you shouldn’t be riding under the influence?”

“I’ll go slow this time,” he said, a promise in his tone.

 

Draco gently guided them past the hidden entrance of _The Silver Asp_ , down the side of the building and onto the almost deserted streets. He flew them only a few feet above the cobble stones, his easy pace could have been mistaken for laziness, an unhurried jaunt in the moonlight with his fiancee.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but Hermione started to enjoy the slow ride. Diagon Alley in daylight was magical, but it couldn’t hold a candle to how mysterious it looked at midnight. The buildings were crooked and enclosing around them, like the curve of a witch’s hat. In the lunar shine, the street cobbles shone like piles of Sickles and dappled different shades of slate and silver.

She caught snatches of their reflection in glass shop windows; their bodies warped and distorted like in a funhouse mirror. Draco’s pale hair and skin lustrously glowed against the darkness of his robes. Her own face seemed small and peered out from her hair, which covered half of her face like damasks hangings on a four-poster bed.

 

“Which one is your place?” Draco asked as he guided them onto her street.

“The red front door.”

He stopped the broom. “Here you go.” Hermione used her grip on Draco’s shoulder to hoist herself off the broom. Draco turned off the magic and the broom fell limp in his fist. “Can I show you in?”

“Sure.”

She fumbled the key into the lock and opened the door for them.

“My flat is on the second floor.”

He followed her up the stairs.

They reached her flat.

“Thank you for seeing me home,” she said, her hand paused on the door knob.

“You’re welcome.” He was very close now. Close enough that his whisper tickled the hairs on the back of her neck.

She turned and was caught in his grey eyed stare. Like a watercolour painting, Draco’s eye colour diffused: darker grey when closer to the pupil which watered down. The black pupil, which was visibly enlarging with every passing second. His lashes languorously brushed his high cheekbones and he surveyed her through half lidded eyes.

“Granger, are you going to invite me in?”

 

In her silence, Draco pressed the issue. He propped his hands on her door frame, effectively caging her. _Caught between a rock and a hard place_ , she mused, _question is which one is the rock and which one is the hard place?_ She regretted that thought immediately. It made her think of all the places Draco might be hard.

“Granger?” He cocked his head in question.

Draco’s tongue wetted his bottom lip. His plump, red and slightly parted lips. His eyes flicked down to her open mouth.

Her breathing was shallow, skimming over her lips like an arid Sahara wind. She could feel her expression softening under his practised gaze.

Draco’s head was angled, a slight tilt that would make it so easy for him to press his mouth to hers. She closed her eyes and tried to let her head gracefully fall back. Unfortunately, in her slightly foggy state she forgot how close the door was and she bumped the back of her head with a loud clunk. _Ouch._

“Oh Granger,” Draco said as he cupped the back of her head. He ran his fingers over the spot she’d hit. “I hate being the good guy, but you should go to bed.”

“You’re right.”

“I will forever savour the moment Hermione Granger said I was ‘right’.”

“I know it’s hard, but try to not be a prat,” she said. She swiped his hand away and gingerly rubbed her head, checking for bumps.

Draco gave a chuckle. “Don’t talk to me about being _hard_.”

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She’d spent far too much time trying to not think about all the places that Draco _could_ be hard that she’d now complied a list and alphabetised it. A for abdomen, B for back, C for chest, D for dic-

“You should go.” It came out colder than she’d intended.

 

Draco’s easy smile stilled. The lightness in his eyes dissolved to slate grey coldness. He took a firm step back, taking his warmth, touch and whisky mingled scent with him.

“I quite understand,” he stated.

She found herself opening her mouth to tell him that _he didn’t understand, not in the slightest_ , but she stopped herself. _What would she say? She barely understood what was happening herself_. 

 

He pulled something from his robes and Hermione almost flinched when he brandished a wand. _Her wand_. She felt a total prat, she’d utterly forgotten that he’d been holding it hostage. Thankful that he didn’t seem to have noticed her reaction.

“Please Granger,” Draco said, “all I ask is that you wait until I’m not around before you put you wand back in that _infernal_ holster of yours.” His fingers lingered on her wrist as she took her wand from him. Draco gave her pulse point a final caress before letting go.

Then he left. It was somehow worse that he didn’t use magic. He didn’t disapparate, or vanish in a puff of glitter and stars. He simply turned around and calmly walked back the way they’d come. And he didn’t look back.

_He hadn’t kissed her_. The thought bounced around her brain like a tennis ball. _He hadn’t kissed her. And then he’d left. And it was all her fault._

 

She hurried into her flat. She clicked the latch and then slid the bolt home for good measure.

_It must be the whisky. It must. There was no other explanation to why she felt bereft that Draco Malfoy had not kissed her. The whisky, that was all._

 

She leant against the door, careful to not hit her head a second time. If she closed her eyes she could feel the lingering memory of Malfoy looming over her and the warmth of his touch.

‘ _I quite understand.’_

His voice had been full of bitter composure. Like a drop of water falling from an icicle, his words had cooled her ardour quicker than any cold shower.

Hermione snapped her eyes open.

_This was pathetic_. She was a grown woman reclining on her door like some sentimental romantic fool, utterly bewildered about what to do next. There were times like this that a girl had to talk to someone.

She needed to call her mum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wow now that was a smoulder,” Draco said, fanning himself with his cowboy hat.  
> “I know right. I feel a bit hot under the collar after that,” the author agreed.  
> “Certainly a promise of things to come.” Draco replaced the hat on his head, readjusting the brim to a jaunty angle. “There are things to come right? I’m not going to be shut out of Miss Granger’s bedchamber forever.”  
> “That wounded look on your face isn’t fooling anyone Malfoy. You have far too much confidence in your own powers of seduction.”  
> Draco facade collapsed. “Very true.” Draco patted his leather chaps. “Why the Wild West outfit?”  
> “I like a man in denim and buckskin. And who can do things with ropes and knots.”  
> “Stop, I might blush.” Draco didn’t look like he would blush. His face was obscured by the brim of the cowboy hat, but it was obvious that he was grinning. Around his neck was a green bandana, tied like a rough cravat. The dark denim shirt fitted him like a second skin, he’d casually rolled up the sleeves to expose his toned forearms. The cut of the tanned coloured chaps, formed a perfect V shape over the denim blunge in his jeans.  
> “Your eyes always descend to my groin, do you know that?” Draco drawled.  
> The author gave a sly wink. “Shall we do the thanks? I know I have my phone somewhere?”  
> “No need. I have my own phone now.” Draco produced the latest touchscreen phone. “Now let me see…”  
> “When did you get that?”  
> “Recently. While you are plotting what ridiculous outfit I should next wear, I am out and about doing important things.”  
> “Like spending money?” “Potato and patato.” Draco’s fingers paused on screen. “Howdy all you guys and gals out there. I would personally like to thank ya’ll all for the the Kudos and Comments. My compliments to tx_ladyj, MorgannaBlack, Maya, mlleB, ditt3, Joey99, Dy, loverofironbull, blueeyedsue and 9linn8, Notmymonkeys, BeBeEagles, passcod, unstablemolecule, AJBlack, Dark_Sassenach36, 2manythingstolove, nikki98, ReadItAll2wice, sydthesquid, Hiddlestoned, RLynn, RebbecaRamone, Maiister, anna08, Princess5410, darkthunder700, MettieBo, and 27 guest." Draco paused. “This cowboy lark is pretty fun.” Draco laughed. “Thank god you didn’t expect me to ride a horse.”  
> The author gave him a sly wink.  
> “Tune in next week folks to hear all about Draco’s adventures with horses…”


	11. The One With A Kiss

When Hermione Granger woke up the next morning she expected to be in two minds about her fiancé, Draco Malfoy. Her deliciously sexy, utterly charming, idiotic and pea-brained fake fiancé! Whom she’d wanted to kiss only last night.

            Instead, when Hermione awoke she was cursing the Malfoy name with more vehemence and variance than she had ever done before. And this was no small matter, considering just yesterday she’d started a food-fight with the menacing head of the Malfoy clan, Lucius Malfoy.

 

            It had started as a simple _tap, tap._

            _Tap, tap._

            Hermione groaned and rolled over in her bed. _What in the world was that mysterious tapping noise,_ she thought and then, almost immediately, fell back asleep.

            _Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap!_

            She jolted awake again.

            _Tap, Tap_.

            Listening quietly, she realised the noise was coming from her living room. She pulled back the covers and got out of bed. Actually, it was more as though she ‘tumbled out of bed’ because as she stood up her whole world felt out of kilter, like she was on the bow of a ship. She blinked a few times, trying to dispel the black dots that threatened to enclose her vision.

            _Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap_.

            The tapping was becoming louder now, more insistent.

            Dragging her feet, she went into her living room, which looked perfectly normal except for the window. Hermione was very proud of her large bay window; it was what had attracted her the most when she’d moved here with Ron all those years ago. But, this morning, the sight beyond the bay window was not attractive. It was a bloody nightmare.

            Owls. So many owls, _everywhere_.

 

            The view from her window was taken up with owls. All types of owls, but all pressing closer to the glass trying to be the first to deliver their letter. Their wide yellow eyes bore into her and the persistent tapping of their beaks and claws matched the headache pressing into her temple.

            Hermione knew instantly that _this_ was all Draco Malfoy’s fault. She knew it like she knew how to breathe; it was an instinctive knowledge.

             ‘Hire someone’ he’d said. ‘You’ll have plenty of applicants’, he’d said. ‘They’ll be breaking down your door to work with _The_ Hermione Granger’, he’d said. _And damn it if he hadn’t been right, only it was her window not her door._

            “Malfoy,” she murderously muttered, “you jumped up little ferret. I’m going to kill you.”

            Then Hermione did the only thing she could do. She rolled up her pajama sleeves and opened the window.

 

            _Knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock_.

            It was sometime later, and Hermione was exhausted. The owls were gone, _thank Merlin_ , and the hundreds of letters were now stacked along one wall. She’d just finished cleaning the owl droppings off her carpet, because there is nothing like the mess a hundred owls can make when they’re in a hurry.

            _Knock, knock…knock._

            “Granger, it’s me! Can I come in,” Draco happily called through the door.

            Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. She couldn’t decide what she preferred: owls en masse or Draco Malfoy sounding suspiciously cheerful?

            _Knock, knock._

            She flung the door open. “You…Oh?” At the sight of Malfoy all the angry insults she’d been brewing this morning melted in her mouth like Ginny’s ice cream. “I see you went shopping again,” she managed to say.

            He flashed her his trademark grin. “How do I look?”

            Draco was wearing Muggle clothes, and not a costume this time. A pair of blue jeans encased his long legs, the pre-faded fabric highlighted his muscled thighs and taut calves. The waistband hung dangerously low, showing a slither of pale skin between the jeans and the hem of his grey t-shirt, which was covered by a jacket. Hermione could tell that the jacket was new as the black hide was stiff and unbuckled.

            “I almost forgot,” Draco said. From his jeans pocket he pulled out a pair of sunglasses. He smoothed them on, flicking his hair back in the process. He raised an eyebrow provocatively at her. “I take your silence to mean that I look so good that I’ve left you speechless?”

            _He looked far too good for her sanity._

            “It’ll do.” She moistened her dry lips.

            Draco flicked the glasses down his nose, so he could gaze down at her.

            “Just do?”

            He propped his hands on the doorframe, mimicking the pose from last night. The pose which had trapped her body between his and the door. The memories threatened to spill over into her mind. She unconsciously leant towards him, feeling like a clichéd moth to a proverbial flame. _His smell, his warmth, the feel of his hands on hers_. A charming smile spread over Draco’s face, dimpling the corners of his mouth; it didn’t reach his eyes. Or more like a moth to flame that then gets zapped. _Damn._

 

            Hermione crossed her arms and stuck her chin out, trying to pin Draco with a defiant stare. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

            “Nothing much. Just to spend the day with my loving fiancée.” Draco drummed his fingers on the doorframe. “Is she here?”

            “I can’t spend the day with you,” Hermione said. “I have a thousand application letters to go through.”

            “Application letters?” Draco looked nonplussed for a second, then rallied. “That was the other thing. I hired you an employee.”

            “What?”

            “No need to thank me.” _No apology for the misogyny._

            “ _Thank you_. Thank you! You’ve got to be kidding me.” Hermione threw up her hands. “This is _so_ you.” She stomped back into her flat, leaving Malfoy on the doorstep.

            “Yes, a Muggleborn chap called Dennis Creevey.” She heard him close the front door behind him. “He’s Demelza Robins’s boyfriend. He’s already started work at your shop now.”

            “You’ve left a stranger in my shop,” she said, turning around and prodding Draco in the chest. Her finger didn’t even make a dent.

            “He’s a Gryffindor. It’s not like I hired a Slytherin.”

            Draco had a point there, at least Dennis was a Gryffindor. He was probably a lovely boy, just like his brother, she thought. But it was the principle of the thing!

            “You had no right.”

            “It’s a bookshop, Granger,” Draco dismissed, “Not a bank vault.”

 

            Draco’s eyes flitted over her living room, noticing the damp patches on the brown carpet and the few feathers she hadn’t cleanedup.

            “What happened in here?” Draco looked back at Hermione, and he seemed for the first time to observe her dishevelled state. In classic Hermione fashion, her hair had inflated to the size of a bouncy castle complete with turrets and hyper children. “More importantly, what happened to you?”

            “ _You_ ,” she spat, her ire back. “You happened to me.”

            “Trust me Granger, when I ‘happen’ to a woman she doesn’t look like _this_ ,” he gestured to all of her, “in the morning.”

            “Like she wants to see you dismembered?” she asked tartly.

            “No. Although that desire does come later after I don’t owl her.”

            “Owls. Funny you should mention owls,” she said. “Let me tell you about my morning of owls.”

            “Owls?”

            “Your stupid advert! The one in _The Daily Prophet_. The one advertising that I needed an employee.”

            “You don’t need that anymore. You’ve got Dennis now,” Draco reminded.

            Hermione gestured to the stacks of letters against her living room wall. “What do you suggest I do with these then?”

            “Oh.”

            “ _Oh_. Oh, doesn’t quite cover it, Draco Lucius Malfoy! I’ve spent my morning dealing with feathers, shit, and small brained creatures.”

            “And that was just dinner at the Weasleys.” He gave a small chuckle. She raised her eyebrows in reply. "Too soon? Ok.”

 

            “I don’t have time for your games, Malfoy. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she walked past him and towards her fireplace, “I need to get going.” _All she needed to do was throw some floo powder in the embers and she could be at her shop in seconds. And away from Malfoy and his distracting Muggle clothing!_

            “I guess that’s me told then,” Draco said, following her to the fireplace. “But before you go Granger,” he touched her arm to get her attention, “I have something to tell you.”

            She sighed. “What is it?”

            “I have to say,” his fingers lazily stroked the back of her exposed arm, sending a tingle of awareness through her body, “I really love your pajamas.” _She’d forgotten that all she was wearing was her hair and her nightclothes_. Hermione dropped the floo powder onto her newly cleaned carpet. “Pink with little quills,” Draco murmured in her ear, “very fetching.”

            “Merlin!” Hermione backed away, her fists bunching the edge of her pajama top like scrunched parchment.

            “Watch out Granger, or your face will soon be the same colour as your pajamas.” He took her grasping hands in his own and smiled down at her. This time his eyes crinkled with mirth. “Come on.” He pulled her away from the fire and ferried her towards her bedroom. “Go and get dressed and I’ll sort breakfast.”

            “Malfoy- ”

            He ignored her protests and pushed her through the open door. “And for Merlin’s sake do something about your hair, it looks like something Hagrid would wear as a hat.” He slammed the door in her face.

           

            Ten minutes later Hermione emerged from her bedroom. Her hair was somewhat tamed, and she’d taken Malfoy’s lead and dressed in Muggle jeans and a pullover.

            She tiptoed into her living room. Her flat was worryingly quiet and empty of Malfoy. _Maybe he’s left? No, her luck wasn’t that good_.

            “Malfoy, where are you?” She said, hoping he wouldn’t reply.

            “In your kitchen,” Draco called, then in a quieter voice added, “How could you lose me? There are only four rooms in this place.”

            _Were her eyes deceiving her, or was Malfoy…?_ “Are you cooking?”

            Draco flipped something in a frying pan. “No, Granger, I’m conducting a cello quartet. What do you think I’m doing?”

            “Pancakes?”

            “No. French toast.”

            “And where did you learn how to make French toast?”

            “In Paris,” he said, being deliberately elusive.

            “Don’t the French consider _Pain Perdu_ to be a dessert, rather than a breakfast?”

            “In my experience it makes a _very_ satisfying breakfast after a long night of interrupted sleep.” Even Hermione couldn’t miss the suggestive tone of his voice.

            “A woman taught you, didn’t she?”

            “Maybe.” Draco slid the bread onto a plate.

            “You are shameless.”

            “I taught her a few things too!” He pushed the plate towards her. “Eat up.”

           

            A few minutes later Hermione couldn’t help but gush, “This is heavenly, Malfoy.” She speared another piece of sweet bread onto her fork.

            “I hope to hear those words repeated in another setting.”

            She sent him a scathing look. “Shut up and let me enjoy the food.” She paused between bites. “I didn’t even know I had cinnamon?”

            Draco opened one of her cupboards and perused the contents. “Cinnamon, and a very out of date packet of dried noodles.”

            “Those were Ron’s.”

            “He’s not a fussy eater, is he?” Draco said as he lifted the crackling packet of noodles out of the cupboard and into the bin.  

“They were an emergency meal,” she said, defensively. She didn’t know why she needed to justify Ron after all these years. She recalled the expression on Ron’s face when she’d told him she was going to marry Malfoy. He’d been furious, his lips white and his eyes startlingly blue. _And full of hurt_.

 

            “I hope to never be that desperate.” Draco slyly reached out and took a piece of her French toast. “My,” he said, taking a bite, “I really am a good cook. And there was me thinking you’d be the chef in our relationship.”

            “If it’s that good, why didn’t you make enough for yourself instead of stealing mine?”

            “There wasn’t enough bread, or eggs, or milk. Have you not realised Granger that you have literally no food in the house? When was the last time you went shopping?”

            Hermione paused, a piece of toast balanced on her fork. “A while ago,” she admitted. “I had to choose between the shop’s rent or food. And I chose the rent.”

            Draco frowned, his brows lowered over his frosty eyes. “Why didn’t Potter and Weasley help you out?”

            “They didn’t know.”

            “Why- “

            “I didn’t want to worry them,” she quickly said. _Or_ , she privately admitted, _let them realise I’d failed_. “Can we change the subject please.”

            Draco looked like he was going to argue; she could tell from the way his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw tightened. “Are you finished?” he curtly asked. She nodded. He picked up her plate and disposed of it in the sink. “I’ll leave you to do the washing up later.”

            “How very gentlemanly of you.” He missed the sarcasm.

            “I cook, you clean. Our marriage will be based on equality. I won’t be slaving away in the kitchen for you, Miss Granger.” His face lightened, and he gave her a slow smile. “I might, however, be _persuaded_ to make the occasional cup of coffee.”

             Hermione could only begin to imagine all the ways Draco could be _persuaded_. Ok, stop that thought now. _She didn’t want to get sucked down that rabbit hole_. “I think I’ll be fine getting my own coffee.”

 

            Draco was watching her - no, _studying_ would be a better word- studying her, with an almost analytical edge, waiting to see how she would react to his baiting words about their impending marriage. _Equality indeed_.

            “What’s Dennis like?” she asked. _She could do some baiting of her own_. 

            “Dennis,” Draco repeated, as if he was trying to readjust his thoughts to the new conversation. “Nice lad. Good references. Bit on the keen side, but that isn’t a bad thing in an employee.”

            “He’s hardly my employee,” she calmly stated.

            “I hired him this morning, of course he’s your employee,” Draco said, waving his hand in a dismissive fashion.

            “You hired him without consulting _me_ , the owner of the bookshop,” she reminded.

            “Granger, you needed an employee and I dealt with it. I don’t see what the – ”

            “How would you feel if I interfered with your business? You’ve pushed your way into my life, dictated to me, invaded my home.” _My thoughts._

            Draco remained silent. His lips thinned, as if he was trying to hold a retort back. It was all the answer she needed.

            “No,” Hermione said, “I didn’t think you’d like that. Don’t talk to me about equality, Draco.” She turned her back on him and walked into her living room, escaping the tension that now crowded the kitchen.

 

            Hermione felt him behind her before she heard him. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked up and a tingle started at the base of her spine, the sensation creeping up her back and threatening to turn into a tremble. 

            “Is that truly what you think? That I’m strong-arming my way into your life for my own sycophantic pleasure?” His voice was soft and deep, almost like the purr of some great cat.

            “Why else,” the words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them.

            “Did it ever occur to you that I might just want to help you, like you’re helping me?” His words were claw-like and grazed against her resolve. “Because you are helping me, Hermione. _Saving_ me if you like. I think we both know how that plays to your vanity.”

            “Vanity,” she hotly echoed.

            “Yes, your vanity.” He took her arm and spun her so that she was forced to face him. “The perfect Hermione Granger. Brightest witch of her age. The reason Potter managed to survive and defeat the Dark Lord. _Your vanity_.”

Draco held her other arm and pulled her closer, so she was staring into his cotton covered chest. She looked up, into his face and she wished she could look away. His expression was fierce, haughty and so terribly alive. His eyes were dancing, roving over her face as if he were trying to master her features.

“Able to succeed in anything she sets her mind to. _The_ Hermione Granger who cannot ask for help even when she’s starving and broke, because the world would see you as fallible.”

His hands were gripping her arms, grounding her to his body. _Christ,_ he was taunting her, playing with her like she was his prey.

“So perfect, so prim, so proper that she can’t be corrupted by a sinner like me.”

He stilled and for the first time met her gaze. His breathing hitched. “How it must make you proud to know that you’ve managed to redeem a Malfoy.”

            And then he kissed her.

 

It wasn’t so much a kiss, more of a possession. Draco’s mouth was crushing hers, his lips firm and unrelenting as he hauled her towards him.

His hands moved up her arms, one hand wove into her hair to cradle the back of her head and the other cupped her chin, drawing her head up to a new angle. He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, his teeth nibbled at her softness. She gasped at the feel of his canines, and Draco took the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth.

He tasted of sugar and cinnamon. His tongue ran along hers, coaxing her to open her mouth wider which she did. She felt a low groan vibrate in Draco’s chest. Her hands, which had been uselessly hanging by her sides, shyly slid up his chest and rested on the wide expanse of his pectorals.

God, his heart was beating fast.

            At her touch, Draco’s kiss softened. His lips now caressed hers, brushing and nibbling in turn. He loosened his grip on her chin and started stroking along her sensitive jawline.

            “I wish,” he breathed between kisses, “I could say I was sorry, but I would be lying.” His mouth moved from her lips, grazed her jaw and slanted down her neck.

            He licked the skin where her neck met her collarbone and Hermione gave a small shudder of pleasure.

            “You like that?” He licked the spot again. She couldn’t reply. His lips had stolen all her words. Draco didn’t appear to care. His kissed her flesh, gently at first almost as if he was mapping out the terrain.

Then he bit her.

Not a hard bite, but enough to leave a mark. He did it again, and this time he sucked at her skin. He bit and sucked in turn, mixing pleasure with gentle pain. _What an oxymoron,_ her addled brain said, _gentle pain_.

He placed a chaste kiss where he’d bitten, as if he was trying to soothe the love bite better. He pulled away so only his breath was touching her neck.

His hand slid from her hair and settled on the small of her back, pushing her pelvis into his. Draco shivered.

            “Granger,” he murmured, nestling his nose into the crook of her neck.

            It was the use of his epithet that seemed to wake her. _Granger._ Hermione tensed under his hands. Draco seemed to have noticed her stiffness, because he pulled away.

            “What’s wrong?” He looked as dazed as she felt. His eyelids were heavy and the eyes beneath were dark and hungry. But his hair was still intact, quaffed to a perfection that only a Malfoy could achieve.

            She pushed at his chest and his hold on her instantly slackened.

 

            “I need to put the kettle on,” Hermione muttered as she sped past him and back into her kitchen.

            “Granger?” Draco cautiously followed her.

            “Nothing,” she said, her voice felt breathy and too high, “I just want that coffee now.”

            “Let me,” Draco said, taking the kettle from her. “How do you take it?”

            “White.”

            She watched as he navigated her kitchen. The mundaneness of the act eased her. _Coffee, that’s normal. Draco in her kitchen, that’s normal._ She touched the mark he’d made on her neck. It was still wet from his lips. _Kissing Draco Malfoy, that’s normal._ _Ha!_

            “Come on.” He picked up two mugs of coffee and walked out of the kitchen.

           

            The room looked as it usually did. A yellow sofa was propped in front of a low coffee table. The fireplace was small, and photos ran along the chipped mantle. Who would have believed she’d been making out with Draco in this room only five minutes ago?

            Draco set the mugs on the table. One white, one black. She took a mental note of how Malfoy took his coffee. They perched on the coach, like two owls.

            Draco broke the silence first. “Hermione, we should talk.”

            _There wasn’t anything to talk about_. Or at least nothing Hermione could talk about with _him_. Hermione couldn’t blame this on the whisky. Nor could she pretend that the hot ache in her belly was anything other than desire. Not in the cold light of day. So instead she changed the topic.

 

            “Where are we going to live?” she asked.

            “To live? Hermione - ”

            “You said Muggle London the other day. Is that still acceptable?”

            She could tell Draco was staring at her.

            “Are we seriously not going to talk about this?” Draco’s tone was incredulous.

            “I think a garden would be nice. It is so nice to have a garden in the middle of London. It would be nice in summer,” she prattled on.

            “Could you please stop saying how ‘nice’ things would be. Hermione, I kissed you. Even if I could take it back I wouldn’t.”

            “And if we live in Muggle London we’ll need to be connected to the floo. I have a contact in the Ministry. Also, we should organise some concealment charms.”

            “Please stop.” Malfoys didn’t beg, but it was close.

 

            “It was going to happen sooner or later. It’s in the contract.” She kept her eyes on her coffee mug.

            “You and I both know _that_ wasn’t part of the contract.”

            She paused. “Big windows. I would love to live somewhere that has a lot of natural light.”

            Draco sighed. “You win.” She watched as his long fingers took hold of his mug. “I have a place. I bought it a while back.” He paused as he sipped the coffee. “A Georgian town house, at the end of a crescent. White house, black iron railings and even a nice park in front. Couldn’t be more picturesque.” He was definitely being sarcastic now.

            “Sounds great.” She picked up her mug.

            “We’ll have to furnish it.”

            “We can use my furniture.”  _The coffee was good. Not as good as his kisses, but…was there anything he wasn’t good at?_

            “Forgive me,” Draco said in a bitter tone, “I’ll have to pass. Not only is your furniture frankly distasteful to my very sight, but you bought it with Weasley did you not?”

            “We did live together.”

            “I won’t share. We’ll have to burn it all.

            “Don’t be so childish,” she snapped. She turned to glare at him.

            He raised his eyebrows at her. “I am not the childish one.” He gave her a cool imperious stare.

            “I won’t destroy perfectly acceptable furniture.”

            “Donate it to charity. That ought to satisfy your do-gooder spirt for a while.”

            “Fine. We’ll go shopping now then.”

            “Spare no expense,” Draco curtly agreed.

             “Is that a family motto,” she asked, “if in doubt throw money at it.”

            “It worked with you, did it not.” His tone was flat, like a lake that had frozen over. Layers of ice that wouldn’t thaw till spring.

Hermione blushed. She didn’t have control over her pinkening cheeks, but she cracked her jaw in volatile response to Malfoy’s jibe. “Tell me Malfoy, have you ever heard of a flat-pack?”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the lack of author's note. Thank you for every kudos and comment, it makes writing all the more enjoyable. Thank you to my new beta sunshine.katz.


	12. The One Where They Go To IKEA

HERMIONE WOULD NORMALLYconsider a trip to the Scandinavian superstore on the weekend as comparable to a circle of hell, however it certainly couldn’t be more painful than the past halfhour of snarky comments between her and Draco.

            “What the fuck is an IKEA,” Draco drawled as they stood in the white entrance of the store. He warily eyed the mass of people who trickled in and out of the shop.

            “Language.” Hermione nudged him and pointed towards a small blonde girl beside them.

            Draco nonchalantly nodded. “I rephrase. What the _duck_ is IKEA?” He raised a pale eyebrow at her, challenging her to complain.

            Hermione didn’t answer. Instead, she shouldered her way past him and into the shop.

_“It worked with you, did it not.”_ Draco’s earlier words hotly echoed in her mind. The Bastard _._ His words itched like a scab, gnawing and nipping at her.

            Hermione unconsciously touched her neck, brushing the sensitive bit of skin Draco had marked. She hated herself for thinking about the kiss. She hated how she could still remember the thumping of his heart, quickening with every dry brush of his mouth. She hated how the whole world seemed to orbit him, like he was a central sun and everybody else just bent to his gravitational will. _Just like she_ _did._

            She forcefully rubbed her fingers over her neck, as if she was trying to wipe away the feel of his lips. _No more_ , she resolved, _she wouldn’t allow herself to be caught up in whatever game Malfoy was playing_. She must always remember, this was business and not pleasure.

 

 “My god,” Draco muttered, his mouth far too close to the shell of her ear, “it’s like The Room of Requirement.”

            Hermione whipped round. Draco was standing next to her, surveying the monopoly-like shop floor. She watched as his eyes widened, and he took in his surroundings. The furniture was colourful, the lighting was bright like a hospital ward, and there was a residual smell of cut wood and glue.

Hermione was taken back at how young Draco looked. Not physically of course, no one could mistake that long piece of man as anything other than a sexually mature adult, who filled out a jacket and a pair of jeans nicely. But the expression on his face - if she didn’t know that Draco was as a cynical bastard, she could almost say it was wonderment.

Both of them winced as the small child from earlier gave a high-pitched cry and pointed a pudgy hand at a flashy sign for IKEA’s famous meatballs to her haggard looking mother.

 “Granger, why are there so many adverts for meatballs?” He gestured to the same loud poster as the child. “I hope you’re not considering trying a repeat of yesterday’s punishment that worked on my father.”

“Why?” She gave a vulpine smile. “Are you nervous?”

“Of what?” Draco sardonically asked. “Of the meatballs? I’ll take my chances with your right arm, my sweet.”

“I am not your sweet.” She moved away from him.

“Of course not,” Draco said to her retreating back, “you’re just my future wife instead.”

Hermione made a low noise of disapproval, but Draco kept talking. “You may not have kissed me back, Granger,” he said, and some of the old Malfoy smugness was back, “but you did let me give you a hickey.”

Hermione turned, her mouth open and ready for a fight, then she saw his wide, predatory grin. _Hewas just a big pussy cat_ , she decided, _and she was not going to be his mouse._ “Come on Malfoy.” She beckoned him into the heart of the store. “It’s time to educate you on how the other half live.”

 

“What - and I mean this with utter sincerity - is a Ypperlig?” Draco raised a questioning eyebrow at Hermione, his hand resting on the back of a bench-like sofa. “And what colour is it? It appears to be a combination of vomit yellow and putrid-like green.”

Hermione considered his statement. “Are they not the same thing?”

“You obviously have not been to a bar at four o’clock in the morning.” Draco fingered a cushion with an overlaying fern pattern. “ _The Silver Asp_ can get quite rowdy on a Saturday night.”

            “You mean, you’ve actually done the round up at your bar?”

“Believe it or not I do occasionally do manual work.” He gingerly sat on one of the sofas in the facade sitting room. Even by IKEA standards the sofa was gaudy, a mixture of florals that looked like a musty carpet bag from a few centuries ago. Malfoy certainly looked out of place on it, in his expensive leather jacket and salon ready hair.

“Have you ever cleaned a table at the bar?” Hermione idly asked as she checked out the bookshelves bolted to the wall.

“Yes,” he replied, “I have wiped down a table.”

“A?” she teased, “Just one?”

“Several,” he clipped in response.

“A toilet?”

“What?”

“Have you ever cleaned a toilet?” she repeated.

 “I pay people to do that. Me cleaning the lavatory would defeat the point of their employment,” he acerbically stated.

Hermione tilted her chin and surveyed him down the length of her nose. “I do often wonder Malfoy, how you sleep at night?”

 He didn’t miss a beat. “Like a baby.”

“I imagine you lie in your canopy four poster bed,” she said, “in your silk pyjamas and fur-lined slippers.” _See_ , she said to herself, _it wasn’t so difficult in finding fault with Malfoy_. Disliking him would be a piece of cake. He wasn’t perfect. He just looked it _._ _Damn it._

Draco casually leant back onto the sofa. “No, my sweet. I sleep in the nude.” He slung his arm over the back of the sofa, looking to all the world as if he was at home. “And do feel free to imagine that.”

She made an involuntary noise in the back of her throat. To her horror, it sounded a bit like a moan.

A languid grin spread over his lips. “I thought that might wipe the smile off your face.” Draco suddenly fidgeted and pressed a hand to the firm cushions of the couch. “Merlin,” he muttered, “what is this thing made of? Bricks?”

“It’s a sofa bed,” she hastily explained, grateful to change the topic from Draco’s sleeping habits. “It can be transformed from a sofa to a bed,” she continued. Draco still looked nonplussed.

“Get up,” she commanded to him, “I’ll show you. See,” she strolled over and plucked the cushions off to reveal a mattress underneath. “Then you pull this and,” there was the clink of metal as the mattress eased out, “ _hey presto_ , a bed.”

He nodded in approval. “That is remarkably ingenious.” Draco bent down to examine the new bed.

Suddenly Draco reeled back in shock, as a small girl ran at him and jumped onto the newly made sofa bed.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” the girl cheerily yelled as she rolled over and over the mattress until, with a thump, she landed on the floor. There was a sharp cry of pain from under the bed.

Draco gave Hermione a panicked look. “What do I do?” he mouthed.

“Help her,” Hermione instructed. She wanted to say, ‘help her you dumbass’, but she didn’t feel that would be appropriate given the situation.

 

Draco quickly dropped to the floor and cautiously scooped up the child. She was very small, possibly no older than six years old. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back in two pig-tail braids and her fair skin was covered in freckles.

Draco carefully sat the child on the edge of the sofa bed and knelt before her.

“Ouch,” the girl moaned. She looked up at him with tear stained cheeks and a wobbly chin. And Hermione watched in utter astonishment as Draco melted. His eyes changed from the clouds on a bleak winter’s day to the fluffy ones on a sunny and his white teeth showed in a sincere smile. 

“Oh dear,” Draco cooed at the girl, “that looks like a nasty cut.” He pulled a white handkerchief - anhonest-to-God handkerchief monogrammed with the initials DLM in green thread - from inside his jacket.

As he pressed the material to the girl’s bleeding knee, Hermione heard him whisper, “That’s a brave kid. Hey, don’t cry. See,” he moved the handkerchief away from her knee, “all better.” The girl’s knee was unblemished, the blood and the wound had disappeared. _As if by magic,_ Hermione sardonically thought.

The child squealed and gave Draco a gap-toothed grin.

“How did you do that?” the girl asked, her voice thick from crying.

“Magic,” he said, and beamed at her. _Show off._

“I like your hair,” the girl said, pointing to Draco’s ash blond locks. “It looks like my Barbie’s hair.”

Hermione snorted.

Draco quickly looked at Hermione and brushed a self-conscious hand through his hair. “What’s a Barbie?” he asked.

“A dolly, silly.”

“I remind you of a doll.”

Hermione could feel the giggle bubbling up in her throat. _Oh, this was precious._

“Not just any doll,” the child said with exaggerated care, “my favourite doll. Her name is Harriet, but I call her Harry.”

“Harry,” Draco dully repeated.

“And Harry can have babies.” The girl mimed a pulling action. “You pull her tummy off and inside is a baby. Then her tummy is flat again.”

“And I remind you of this doll?” Draco said, coming to the crux of the comparison. “Called Harry and that can have babies?”

“Yep,” the girl concluded.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking for further contrasts,” Draco dryly said. “And you can stop that sniggering, Granger,” Draco addressed Hermione, “I don’t even have to look at you to know that the expression on your face is one of mirth.”

 

“Cissy?” A woman rushed past Hermione and towards Draco and the girl. “Cissy,” the woman said, “what did I tell you about running off.”

“Cissy,” Draco repeated, looking from the woman to the girl. “What’s it short for?”  
            “Cecilia,” the girl proudly said.

“My mother’s nickname is Cissy,” Draco quietly said.

“I’m so sorry that she bothered you,” the woman said, interrupting their exchange.

Draco shook his head. “No need to apologise, she wasn’t bothering me at all. In fact, I was getting a delightful dialogue of how I remind her of her dearest doll, Harriet.” Then he added in a whisper, “The one that can get pregnant.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm, but the woman’s eyes still went wide. She opened her mouth but was interrupted by Cissy.

 “Mummy, did you see! It’s a bed sofa,” the child exclaimed, “can we get one please?” The girl overstated the word ‘please’, so it was more of a ‘pleaassssseee.’. “It’s just like the one at the sleepover-”

“No,” the girl’s mother firmly said. “I think we have wasted enough of these nice people’s time.”

“Charmed, Cissy.” Draco waved goodbye and whimsically watched the child walk off, hand in hand with her mother.

Hermione mimicked Draco’s smile. “I think,” she said, “that you have just set that girl’s standards on men for the rest of her life.”  
            Draco rose from the floor, using the bed as support. “I don’t know what you’re prattling on about,” he hoarsely said, but his pink cheeks betrayed him.

“You forget I was once her age.” Her smile turned smug, “The great Draco Malfoy felled by a six-year-old.”

Draco took a few hurried steps towards her. “Not one word, Granger,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth. He reached for Hermione and pressed his hands to the small of her back, pulling her into him. “Or I will feel the need to stop your mouth in any way I can.”

 

Awareness rushed through Hermione’s body. All traces of paternal indulgence had left his voice, to be replaced by a deep gruffness that caused the breath to catch in her throat.         “No one,” he said, while he thumbed her lower back, “other than ourselves will ever hear about Harry the pregnant doll.”

“Barbie,” she whispered.

“Barbie then.” He leaned closer, so he could speak into her ear. “Or this Barbie’s resemblance to me. Understood?”

Hermione numbly nodded.

            She heard Draco sigh and felt the long exhale tickle her skin and the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. “Good girl.” Then he pulled back, but not before dropping a kiss on her temple. His lips lightly brushed the skin just above her eyebrow, like she was made of porcelain and he was afraid of breaking her. He lingered there for a few seconds and then he was gone, and she was only left with the memory of his kiss once more.

 

 

AT NO TIME had Hermione considered herself to be motivated by money. She was a believer in hard work and friendship, and as that old proverb goes, ‘money and friendship go like oil and water.’ On the other hand, Draco was galvanised by money.

Draco lived it, breathed it and spent it in vast quantities. Even as she aimlessly wandered around Ikea, Hermione could see the mercantile cogs racing around his brain. Draco didn’t judge money by a bank balance, he sensorially evaluated everything. He touched upholstery, listened to the knock of plywood, looked for the strength of hinges, smelled for chemicals in mattresses, and Hermione was sure he’d licked a print of Van Gough’s _Almond Blossom_ when he thought she wasn’t looking.

 

They had been in IKEA for over an hour when Hermione announced, “We came here to buy furniture.” She watched Draco test the weight of a coffee table for the third time. “Not grope the displays.”

Draco tapped the table again, his eyes closed as he listened for the reverb. Hermione got the impression that he wasn’t impressed with what he heard. He straightened and brushed his hands distractedly on his jeans.

“Really?” he said, fixing her with a stare. “Because it seemed to be that you only brought me here to shame me for my spendthrift ways. You’ve done more looking at me, than you have at these delightfully coloured furnishings.” He patted the top of a blue armchair, called POÄNG.

“I don’t know what you are talking about?” Hermione automatically replied.

Draco lowered himself into POÄNG, settling his arms on the plywood sides. He shuffled experimentally in POÄNG. POÄNG bounced, the natural elasticity of the pine taking his weight. Draco raised his eyebrow at the chair’s springiness. He gave another half-jump in the chair. It bounced again.

“You know,” Draco remarked, “I think I rather like this chair.” He fondly fondled the arms, a satisfied look on his face. “I may actually have to buy something in this garish shop after all.”

“Perish the thought.”

“This chair has a certain quality. But I am afraid that is it. As you so politely pointed out earlier, I do rather throw money at my problems. And as I imagine it is my money which is going to pay for this venture, then I would like to go somewhere that has a little more Mahogany, Teak, and Sheesham, and a little less plywood and chipboard?”

“Sheesham?” Hermione scoffed. “Do you have any comprehension of how pompous that sounds?”

“I grew up in a manor house.” Draco spoke slowly, as he world to an errant child, “A listed building. Hundreds of years old. Do you know that most of the furnishings in that house are antiques? I am the definition of pompous. I don’t recall my parents having to buy one stick of furniture in my whole life. And do you know the reason for that?”

“No.”

            “Because of things like Sheesham wood.” He rose from the chair with alarming speed. “I can hardly have business associates round for drinks and seat them on my,” he looked at the name of the closest sofa, “on my SÖDERHAMN.Can I?”

“It depends on your associates.”

“They’re all snobs and toffs. More so than I am.”

She lifted her chin haughtily. “Is that possible?”

“Most certainly,” he affirmed. He clasped her shoulder, a gesture of comfort rather than one of dominance or eroticism. “By all means, pick another Muggle store,” he quietly said. “Please, do not believe I am indifferent purely because this place is Muggle. I have rather unexpectedly enjoyed my time here.”

Hermione rolled her shoulders, shrugging Draco’s hand off in the process. He watched his hand fall, limply to his side.

He didn’t touch her again, instead he seemed to try and caress her with his next few questions. “Is there a shop you’ve always loved, a shop which you’ve walked around but never bought anything? Then please, if such a place exists take me to it.”

She shyly looked into his pale eyes. The tenderness to his voice continued in his eyes; they were shining like the sun, peeping from behind misty clouds. But then his eyes slipped past her and focussed on something behind.

“Ah, mademoiselle,” Draco called, “may I request your kind aid?” Hermione blinked in astonishment as Draco walked right by her. She slowly turned and saw that Draco was heading towards a young woman, wearing an IKEA uniformed t-shirt and a stupefied expression.

Hermione sighed and followed Draco. Her fiancé seemed to have a stupefying effect on all women, and to be honest, most people, animals and inanimate objects. Draco wasn’t fussy.

“I wish to procure this chair,” Draco said to the assistant. He smiled roguishly. “Would you mind dreadfully in assisting me.”

The assistant mutely nodded.

 

Ten minutes later, they left IKEA, after what must have been the quickest and most efficient checkout the store had ever seen.

“I look forward to sinking into my chair,” Draco gloated to Hermione. He was having the chair delivered to his - _their_ \- house next week.

Hermione secretly smiled to herself. She’d artfully avoided mentioning that he would have to assemble it on arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author and Draco interactions: 
> 
> “Get off your horse and drink your milk,” the author said to Draco.  
> “I don’t know what is more alarming; the sentiments of that sentence, or your terrible accent,” Draco snapped. He was still wearing his cowboy gear, the large belt buckle glinting in the sun. “Although I am gratified that you said, ‘get off the horse’.” Draco pointed to a large brown horse which was trotting merrily in a paddock. “Because I have not intension of getting on that thing.”  
> “But why,” the author cried. She went up to the paddocks wooden fence and climbed on top of it. “He looks like a perfect darling.”  
> “Then you ride him them.” Draco walked to when the author was, and menacingly crossed his arms.  
> “Oh no, I don’t ride. Plus no one wants to see me ride, it’s all about you. I thought you’d like that.”  
> “Playing to my vanity will not work this time,” Draco commented.  
> “Fine,” the author said, and slipped over the fence. “Then I’ll try blackmail. Get on that horse Malfoy or you won’t get your paws on Granger again.”  
> Draco clasped his hands to his chest. “You wouldn’t?”  
> “I would.”  
> Draco paused, his brows furrowed. “Alright,” he conceded. “But I want the next chapter to be bloody steamy.”  
> “That can be arranged.”  
> TBC…
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for all the comments, hits and kudos. Over 400, it’s amazing! It is an honour to have the story enjoyed by so many people.
> 
> And thank you to my beta sunshine katz.


	13. The One With Candles, Kisses and Confessions

_“Is there a shop you’ve always loved, a shop which you’ve walked around but never bought anything?” Draco’s words had caressed Hermione like a lover’s touch. “Then please, if such a place exists, take me to it.”_

After leaving the Swedish nightmare that was IKEA, Hermione had directed Draco to the one store which she would always associate with her childhood: the John Lewis on Oxford Street.

“John Lewis.” Draco read, as he stared around the home department of the centuries old shop. “Guy sounds like more of a tosser than IKEA.”

“Takes one to know one,” Hermione lightly quipped.

The store had a similar open plan design to IKEA, but instead of façade rooms, John Lewis was arranged by product, the quality and price increasing the further you explored. Polished tables and embroidered sofas stretched over the expansive shop floor, like rich offerings to the gods of commercialism. Hermione smiled to herself; she had a feeling Draco would like it here.

Only five minutes later Hermione realised she was right, Draco did like it here. She, on the other hand…

            “I don’t see what’s wrong with this coach.” Draco let outan erotic moan as he flopped ontothe large leather sofa. Then he pressed his face into the leather and gave a long, loud sniff, not dissimilar to a pampered lapdog smelling its favourite dish of steak.

            “Malfoy,” Hermione hissed, “Don’t smell the sofa!” Draco gave another muffled moan and buried his head further into the cow hide. “Draco, please. People are going to start looking.”

            Draco gave a stifled huff and rolled over. He propped his head on an arm rest and fixed her with a disapproving gaze. “Let them look, dear. I have nothing to hide.”

            “Just get up.”

            Draco’s finger languidly stroked the leather cushions. “I have to try out if I’m going to buy it,” he said, with exasperating smugness. “Now come,” he patted the tiny slither of sofa beside his outstretched body, “and join me.”

            Hermione have a dry swallow. “You have got to be kidding me.”

            “We must also check there is enough snuggle room.” She just knew that Draco was using the word ‘snuggle’ as a euphemism for some other horizontal activity.

            “No,” Hermione reiterated with exasperatedpatience, “I don’t have to check anything, because we are not buying this sofa.”

            “Why not, pray tell?”

            _Because he looked far too good sprawled out on it like some debauched sex god, and I really am jealous of the way_ _he’sfondling that leather,_ is what she didn’t say. “Because,” she hesitated, “because it’s green.”

            “Oh, dear Granger. A touch of Gryffindor pride coming on?” He smirked. “But I thought you’d like leather. It’s very practice.”

            “How so?”

            “Easy to clean, hardwearing and,” he paused, letting his gaze run over her body, “leather doesn’t stain.”

            It was so easy to slip back into his routine with him. The dialogue that slipped over the edge into innuendoes; _or,_ she wryly thought, _the poor words that Draco bullied and used in his deb_ _auched rhetoric._ They hardly had stereotypical conversation, but over the past week their rapid fire of repartee was becoming familiar. “Get off the coach,” she lowly muttered. _Perhaps too familiar._

            “You’re right, this isn’t the sofa for us.” To Hermione’s relief, he rose and left a Draco-shaped dent in the sofa.

            “Thank God.”

            “We need a much bigger sofa, for much bigger activities.”

            She wished her heart wouldn’t jump at the serpentine curl of his lips when he flashed her that grin. 

 

“Of course you’d chose brocade,” Draco said, eyeing the floral sofa Hermione sat on with obvious dislike. “It is so middle class of you.”

            “My grandmother had a brocade cream and gold sofa set,” Hermione informed him.

            “And my grandfather had a green leather chair,” Draco parried. “You don’t see me getting all teary eyed about it.”

            “I happened to like my grandmother.”

            “Ah,” Draco said, “there you do have a point Miss Granger. I’m going to regret this.” He winced. “Get the brocade monstrosity. If it makes you happy.”

            “And the matching chairs?”

            Draco’s eyes were screwed up, as if submitting to her interior design ideas was physically painful. “Yes,” he said between parted lips, “and the matching chairs.”

            “Were you close to your grandfather?”

            “I may have embellished the bit about my grandfather.”

            “You lying cad.”

            “I know,” he sighed, “and isn’t it wonderfully freeing.”

 

“Ah, the bedroom department. Finally, we are at my favourite bit of the shopping excursion,” Draco cheerfully informed her.

Hermione found she couldn’t agree with him.

Draco sank downonto a mattress, causing the plastic covering to crackle and bulge under his weight. He looked up at the ceiling and gave a contented smile. “Come and cop a feel Granger.”

“Excuse me?”

“Of the mattress,” Draco said, looking up at her through pale lashes. “Although if you do wish to grab my behind. I won’t object.”

 Hermione seethed, but she sat on the edge of the plump mattress. She heard Draco sigh, and suddenly he grabbed her arm and pulled her down, so she was lying next to him.

She let out a very unattractive squawk.

“Now that’s better,” Draco said. His lips were close to her ear. “You, like this,” he propped himself up, so he could admire her, “on the white sheets, with your hair spread out like a dark halo. Well, it’s an angelic sight.”

Hermione immediately sat up, rising from the bed like a cursed mummy from the tomb.

“Err…how many bedrooms does this house have?” she hurriedly asked.

“Four,” Draco said. He shuffled back so he was propped on the bed’s expansive headboard.

“And we’ll have separate rooms?” She felt this need to get a verbal clarification on this, if not written.

There was an awful silence, only broken by the static of the shop’s tannoy speakers.

“If you so wish it.”

 

 

“Do we truly need seven different types of candles?” Draco complained, as he watched Hermione thrust two more candles into his outstretched hands.

“They’re scented candles,” Hermione said, considering this to be a just explanation.

“They all burn the same way, do they not?”

            “Are you afraid that they’ll light up the economical void that is your life?” She let her words fall like drops of ink off the nibof a quill.

            “Whose money is paying for said candles, by the way?”

            “I guess I better get another three then, as you are graciously footing the bill.”

            “This is some sort of feminine punishment?” Draco said, and unceremoniously dumped the candles into a discarded trolley. “To make everything smell like,” he reached down and picked up a candle at random, “Jasmine, Bergamot and a hint of Cedar?” He pressed his face to the candle and sniffed. “Actually, that’s not bad.” He smiled at her. It wasn’t a Malfoy smirk or a grin, but a genuine soft smile that crinkled and formed soft dimples. “Puts an entirely new perspective on the phrase ‘coming out smelling like roses’.”

           

 “Too plain.” Draco said as they passed yet another dining table. “Too woody. Too much glass. Ah,” he paused at a huge dark monstrosity of a table, “finally some Teak!”

            Draco practically lay across the table, his face close to the wood. _Goodness_ , Hermione thought, _he looked like he wanted to lick that table and then make love to it with strawberries and cream_. 

            “Sir!” a stuffy voice cried out, “Please remove your person from the table.” A little man rushed towards Draco and his table-like-lover. When Hermione saw the little man she instantly thought of a penguin. He had a shuffle-like walk which made it seem like his trousers were sewn together, dark grey hair which was neatly parted and a pair of wide framed amber spectacles. He blinked profusely behind the thick frames.

            Draco propped himself up on the table, like a beached seal, and beamed at the fusty floor manager. “I’ll take it,” he announced. “And whatever else my fiancée wants.” Draco turned to Hermione. “Do you want these chairs?” he asked, referring to the matching dining chairs, “Or shall we order some in a different colour?”

            “The chairs are fine, Draco.” She shook her head slight in amusement. She was learning to take Draco as he came, impetuous and slightly deranged though that may be.

            “Take it?” the man faltered in his funny steps.

             “Absolutely,” Draco asserted. “I intend to place a very large order.” He slipped off the polished table and insinuated himself next to the little man. “And I want to talk about a very generous discount,” Draco leaned down and checked the man’s name tag, “Nicholas.”

 

An hour later, they left the shop. Draco had haggled the man down to a twenty percent discount and, like the IKEAchair, he’d arranged to have everything delivered to his Muggle townhouse next week.

“I would have got thirty percent,” Draco moaned at her, “if you hadn’t been there looking forlornly at your scented candles.”

“But you said you’d walk away,” Hermione commented, confused. She was holding a huge scented candle against her stomach.

“Granger, it is a basic rule of haggling to never look like you want something too much. Always threaten to walk away.”

Draco automatically fell into step besides Hermione, as she weaved and dodged along the streets. Now that sheand Draco were done with their mandatory furnitureshopping she wanted to get back to her shop. Assess the damage one wizard might have done in a morning.

Draco suddenly gavea queer look at the candle she clutched. “Do you want me to carry that?” he offered. She silently relinquished the candle, and Draco tucked it under his arm. “Why did we have to take this with us now? Why not have it delivered next week?”

“It’s for my mum,” she replied, cryptically. Hermione bit her lip and nibbled. It was like she was trying to hold onto her secrets, as if the physical act of shutting her mouth could stop her from spilling them.

Draco peered at her, his brows creased. “Go on,” he coaxed. “You’ve met my mother. I doubt your story is as reprehensible as mine.”

“Every year we - my parents and I - would go to John Lewis. It was our Christmas tradition. Dad would distract me with a trip to Santa’s Grotto in the main foyer, while mum snuck off to get my Christmas presents.” In spite of herself, Hermione smiled. She’d loved those times with her parents. They’d walk along Oxford Street,the cold air turning their breath to misty clouds, while Hermione would rub her mittened hands in anticipation of sweets, presents and Christmas cheer.

“After shopping, we would get hot chocolate in the café on the top floor.” Hot chocolate might not mean much to Malfoy, but with her parents’strict sugar-free diet the Christmas hot chocolate had been a rare, and lovely treat.

“Granger, pardon my interruption, but this sounds sickeningly idyllic,” Draco commented, but he was smiling as he said it. Well, sort of smiling. More of a strained grimace.

“It was,” she admitted. “La Vie en rose,” she murmured.

“La Vie en rose?”

“Le Vie en rose. Looking at life through rose-coloured glasses. It’s a very famous French song by Edith Piaf.” She gave Draco a rueful smile. “Surely you came across it on your visits to Paris?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I think both you and I know I didn’t do much sight-seeing. At least,” and now he smiled, “not what you would call sight-seeing. But enough about me - the candle?” he prompted.

“At the end of the day, my mum would drag us to the home department and she would pick out a scented candle. A huge candle, the size of a dinner plate. Mum would light it on Christmas Eve and it would be lit until the end of the holiday season. The house would be filled with the smell of cinnamon, oranges and cedar.” She trailed off, lost in the old memories of her childhood home.

“I hate to break it to you Granger, but Christmas isn’t for a while yet.”

“I know that.”

“Then why- ”

“It’s a peace offering,” she blurted.

“Why do you need a peace offering?”

“We don’t go to John Lewis anymore. I hadn’t been there for over a decade until today, with you. I haven’t spent Christmas with my parents for years, not since before Hogwarts. My mum…my dad, after the war they.” The words kept rushing, tumbling out of her mouth like water down a mountain side. “They never forgot what I did. They forgave me,” she choked, and a sob caught in her breath. “They love me, I’m their daughter, but they never forgot.” Hermione’sbabble of words was halted when Draco suddenly caught her arm.

“Hey,” he soothed, “hey, it’s alright.” He pulled her into his chest and wrapped his free arm round her back. He mumbled a few nonsensical phrases into her hair as his hand rubbed patterns on her back. She barely noticed the street traffic, the rumble of motors, or even the presence of people passing them on the crowded pavement; so intentwas she on the feel of Malfoy.

Her eyes prickled. Her throat felt thick, as if she had a swallowed a golf ball. She let herself lean into Draco’s body. He felt strong and steady. She, on the other hand, felt like a dried leaf shaking off the branches of a tree, one gust of wind and she’d fall.

            “I’d like to meet your mum,” Draco said, “your dad too.”

            Hermione gave an uneven smile. She was pleased Draco couldn’t see her face. She was sure her eyes were red and rimmed. “That’s good,” she said. “because we’re visiting them tomorrow.”

            “Is your father the type to take offence over my not asking his permission before getting engaged to you?”

            “No more so, than your father taking offence over our future children being half-blood.”

            “Touché.”

            They started to walk again. They both pretended they hadn’t noticed her slip up of ‘our children’. 

 

They’d walked in silence back to the Leaky Cauldron. Not a silence that crackled with tension, like the pressure of an impending thunderstorm. No, this silence was more like a sickroom hush; neither wanting to speak in fear of disturbing the uneasy peace between them. Without asking, Draco had pulled out his wand and tapped the appropriate bricks that revealed Diagon Alley. Then, he’d wordlessly followed her as she’d led their way to the side road which held her bookshop. But that’s when Hermione stopped, and Draco in surprise crashed into her back.

“Oh Merlin,” Hermione said, hurrying a few steps forward trying to get a better view. “What’s happened? Do you think there’s been an accident?” Hermione and Draco couldn’t get within ten meters of her shop, _Miss G’s Emporium_ , because of the hundred or so people blocking their way.

To Hermione’s astonishment Draco smiled. “No, my sweet,” he said, taking her hand in his, “I think this is what success looks like.”

“You mean…all these people are here to visit my shop?”

Draco gave her a wry glance. “I think more than visit. Look.” He tipped his head in the direction of a young man, who having fought his way through the crowed, had staggered out and clutching to his chest was…

“A book,” she said. A book. A Muggle book. “ _The Sun Also Rises,_ Ernest Hemingway,” she read the cover aloud. “I can’t believe it. They’re buying my books.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Draco said. “I mean, consider how many job applications you received. Now come on.” He tightened his grip on her arm. “Let’s see how young Dennis is holding up.”

 

            “Hermione - sorry- Miss Granger,” Dennis Creevey was positively jumping with excitement. “Thank you for hiring me. When Mr. Malfoy offered me the job I wondered if I was up to it. I mean it’s you!” He smiled, a large smile that showed off the slight gap between his front teeth. “You! I never dreamed that Hermio - sorry - Miss Granger would ever want me to work for her!”

            Dennis Creevey was a lean man. His slightly built shoulders and delicate wrists betrayed his young age. His hair was cut short, and only a few whips hung in front of his milky blue eyes. His colouring was a shade darker than his older brother’s had been; whereas Colin had been rosy cheeks and floppy blond hair, Dennis was brown. Light brown hair and skin nutted with the summer sun, his freckles spattered like damp soil on his ruddy cheeks. His summer bronzing probably complemented Demelza Robin’s rosy cheeks and dappled chestnut hair.

            Draco clasped his hand on Dennis’s shoulder, and Hermione was surprised the slight boy didn’t topple with the weight of Draco’s friendly embrace. “You are welcome, Dennis,” Draco said. “Hermione and I are very pleased to have such an,” he paused - as if looking for a word to describe Dennis’ hyper enthusiasm - “eager employee.” Draco looked at her, waiting for her to confirm his statement, but Hermione’s mouth was gaping like a fish.

            There were so many people. So many wizards and witches who were in her shop, flicking through books, reading the back covers, joining the queue that snaked its way around the shop and ended at the open door.

            “As you can see, Dennis,” Draco said, swooping in once more when he noticed Hermione’s wordless shock, “my fiancée is a tad overwhelmed.”

            “Oh yes! Congratulations!” Dennis spluttered. “I could hardly believe it when Demelza said you were getting married, but then the announcement was in this morning’s Prophet.”

            “Thank you,” Draco said, “And I hope you and the charming Miss Robins will accept our invitation to the wedding?”

            Hermione swore Dennis’s feet left the ground for a moment. He was vibrating with pride. “Yes Sir!” Dennis shouted.

            “And how have you been handling your first day?” Draco asked. “Very well by the looks of it.” Hermione internally agreed with Draco.

            The queue was large but well-ordered, as Dennis had drawn a plaque thatdirected which way people should wait. The bookshelves were decidedly empty, but Hermione noticed that Dennis had taken the initiative and already starting moving stock from the backroom into the main shop. The receipt ledger was open on the counter, and she could see each of the appropriate columns were properly filled out in Dennis’s neat copperplate hand.

            “Dennis,” Hermione said, breaking the masculine dialogue for the first time. “You’ve…what I mean is…” She looked at Draco, waiting for him to butt in with one of his sleek and perfunctory remarks, but he said nothing and only gave her a lopsided grin. “Dennis,” she restarted, “you’ve done an admirable job. I hope that you will consider taking this position permanently?”

            Dennis’s smile widened to an impossible distance that caused his eyes to crinkle and bunch. He nodded, his head bobbing like a jack rabbit.

            “Wonderful,” Draco smoothly said. “Then we shall leave you to it Dennis. I believe we have kept you from your work for long enough.” He gestured to the ever-growing queue.

            Dennis did a comic double take at the rapidly lengthening line. “Gee,” he said, “whenever I look away there seems to be more of them.”

            Draco laughed. “Perhaps, if we ask Miss Granger nicely she’ll consent to hiring you a colleague.”

            Hermione threw Draco a dirty look and then plastered on a smile for Dennis. “Maybe,” she quipped. “Let’s see how tomorrow goes. There is such a thing as a one hit wonder.” _Yes_ , she thought, _while everything might appear to be shining_ _throughthose rose coloured glasses the novelty of a Muggle book might wear off as quickly as it started._

            “As ever,” Draco said, “my fiancée is the level headed one.”

            The irony of Draco’s statement didn’t escape her, becoming his fiancée was hardly a level headed decision; it couldn’t even be described as a sane one. She’d been so caught up the night Draco had come to her with his strange proposal. She had been swept away on the current, captured with the halcyon grandeur of the hotel and the attractive, attentive man sitting opposite her.

            The ever changing colour of his eyes, sea-like in their depth and intensity; even now when she looked into his eyes, she knew she’d never know all his shades. This morning, when he’d kissed her his eyes had been dark, possessive and hungry. Hermione had never seen, or felt, such a gaze directed at her. That raw desire, a desire to possess, a desire to claim. He had in some way: the brand of his ring, the frequent referrals to heras _his_ fiancée, and even the little mark on her neck; all displays that she was his. But it didn’t seem enough, not if his reaction after their kiss was anything to go by. _It worked on you, did it not_. Such a childish jibe, and to her shame so like the words she’d been hurling at him.

            The realisation broke over her like a wave and clung to her, like remnants of surf on her bare skin. She’d hurt him.

            That was why he’d lashed out. That was why he’d verbally attacked her, in the basest and most effective way possible. She’d hurt him. But how had she hurt him, had she just offended his pride, his lothario vanity, or was it something more?

 

            “Hermione?” The call of her name pulled her out of her cogitation. “Hermione?” Draco repeated.

            “Sorry,” she said. She raised an embarrassed hand and curled an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry. I was distracted.”

            Draco gave her a queer look, as if she was a puzzle that had once again evaded him. “Nothing,” he said. “I just asked if you wanted to go? Dennis seems to have everything in hand?” While she’d been absorbed with her thoughts, Dennis has slipped away and started to serve the customers. Hermione watched him as his unending smile as he greeted each new customer with the same enthusiasm as he had the last. Draco had been right in hiring Dennis, even if Draco’s highhanded methods were debatable.

            “Oh,” she said. “I just need to check some things first.” She regretted saying that the moment the words were out of her mouth, knew the elusiveness of ‘some things’ was bound to piqueDraco’s curiosity. Without looking at him, Hermione quickly turned away and walked to the back of the shop to her cramped office.

 

Her office looked exactly as she had left it. She let out a sigh. Thank God, Dennis had been too busy to even give this room more than a cursory glance. Hermione walked the few pacesto her desk and started rummaging through the papers, bills and miscellaneous bits of parchment she hadn’t gotten around to organising. _Where was it?_ She opened the top drawer of the desk, rummaging through the ink bottles and quills. _Nothing._ She rammed the new drawer open. _Still nothing._ Hermione felt desperate now. Getting onto her knees she searched the last drawer.

            “Granger,” Draco’s silky drawl caused her to jump and whip her head around, “not that the sight of you on the floor isn’t one to appeal to my more depraved instincts, but what are you doing?”

            Hermione got to her feet and felt unexpectedly guilty. “I left my manuscript in the bookshop,” she confessed.

            “Ah. I see.” Draco grinned at her and fished from the inside of his leather jacket her battered notebook: her manuscript. “You mean this little thing?” He flaunted it in front of her.

            “Oh. Thank God.” She stepped towards him, her hand outstretched.

            “I didn’t think you’d want young Dennis finding it.” Draco didn’t hand her the book.

            “No. Thank you, that was very considerate of you.” She swallowed, her eyes never leaving her manuscript. “Did you read it?” she asked.

            “No,” he said.

            Relief flooded her. “Really?” It came out like a breathy sigh.

            Draco kept smiling, his eyes locked on her face. “No.”

            “You just said!” she huffed. She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised, this wasDraco Malfoy after all. He couldn’t keep his slimy nose out of anything.

            “I only read the first page.” He merrily assured, holding the book just beyond her reach. “Only a little bit about the brooding Duke Grant and the pretty Miss Butler. Not a throbbing head in sight.”

            “Draco give me that book!” Hermione desperately lunged at him, her fingers scraping the edge of the book before Draco thrust it higher into the air. She tried again, scrabbling up his body and using his shoulders to steadyherself, then she jumped. Her legs automatically wrapped round his hips, and her chin brushed the top of his head. Suddenly, Draco stilled. The arm holding her book ramrod straight and tantalisingly out of her range.

            “Errr Granger,” Draco said, his voice muffled. “Not that I’m complaining but my face is very close to your breasts.”

            Hermione looked down. Between the valley of her breasts was Draco Malfoy. He was grinning and looking very satisfied with himself. She started. Letting go of his shoulders she tilted backwards. Draco dropped the book and grasped her waist with both of his hands, steadying her.

            “Woah.” It came out as a whistling sound between his teeth. “Don’t be in such a hurry, I don’t want to drop you.”

            “Let me go,” she panted. She started to wriggle, heedlessly attempting to break his grip.

            “God don’t jiggle like that,” Draco said, and his voice was bordering on a growl. “Be still. If you had my view, then you would be bouncing a lot less.” Even with the gravelly tone, Hermione picked up on the suggestiveness of his words. She stilled, every muscle clenched.

            “Let me go,” she hotly reiterated.

            Draco adjusted his grip and slowly lowered her, her shoes making a slight noise as he settled her back on the ground. Hermione could feel every strong pane of his chest and stomach, pressing into her softness. He seemed as affected as she was. He was panting, and the muscles beneath her hands were bunched. She realised she was fisting the fine material of his top and pulled her hands away as if she had been burned. Without looking at him Hermione scooped up her manuscript, hugging the worn book to her chest. 

            Draco cleared his throat, breaking the uneasy silence. “Dinner?” he asked and took a purposeful step away from her. 

 

Dinner was awkward, and Hermione considered that this was the only time that had been mutually awkward between them. Oh, there had been arguments, bitter words, and even after he’dkissed her this morning it had been her who had felt uncomfortable and Draco who had wanted to talk. Draco Malfoy didn’t have awkward small talk, or strained silences; he was smooth talking and an easy conversationalist, and charm was as natural to him as breathing. But here he was, sitting opposite her, looking to all the world like a teenage boy on his first date flummoxed to what to say. If she hadn’t felt so damned bumbling herself, she might have found him endearing.

            “How is your meal?” she said, as she poked at her chicken.

            Draco lowered his fork. “I find myself not particularly hungry for food.” He decisively pushed his plate away from him. Like her, his meal was barely touched. The wizarding restaurant was small but crowded. It seemed to be the local haunt for many of the patrons, as costumers familiarly called and chatted to the servers while dishes of piping hot soup and roasted meats floated through the air. She and Draco had been thrown a few cursory glances, but overall, they had been left alone with the minimal amount of fuss.

            “I hope the chef doesn’t take offence at us not eating,” she said.

            “I’ll give a generous tip,” Draco said, with almost perfunctory irrelevance. He played with the fringe of his napkin, aimlessly picked at a stray thread before dropping the cloth on the table. “Do you care nothing for me?” His question hit her like a surprise blow to the gut, knocking the wind out of her.

            “Sorry?” she said, her voice quiet with breathlessness.

            “Do you care for me?” This time his voice was harsher, as if it physically hurt him to ask her this. He’d been looking at her, boring her face with his dark pupils but now he closed his eyes, not wishing to watch the kaleidoscope of expressions on her face; in case, he didn’t like what he saw.

            Hermione exhaled a long breath. “I don’t know what you mean?”

            “It’s a simple question: do you care for me?” Hermione wished he’d open his eyes, but he stubbornly kept them shut.

            “It’s not that simple.”

            “Yes, it is,” he insisted.

            Hermione quickly glanced around. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, but this public restaurant hardly seemed the place to have this conversation.

            “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

            His eyelashes quivered, delicately brushing his pale cheekbones. “Yes or no?”

            “Persistently asking won’t make me give you any less of a monosyllabic answer.” She tried to keep her tone measured, but something of her frustration must have come across because Draco frowned.

            “No, then,” he curtly said.

            “No, it’s- ”

            “No, as in you don’t care for me?”

            “Will you let me finish?” Draco opened his mouth, wanting to answer back but he closed it again. He inclined his head, hinting for her to continue. “I don’t like you Draco,” she started, hurrying through the words, “You are high handed, conceited and arrogant.”

            “Anything else?” he bitterly asked.

            “Yes,” she snapped. “You are also intelligent, witty, and on occasions, kind. To answer your question: No, I don’t like you, Draco Malfoy. But I do admire you, and I think you and I could do a lot of good in this world.”

            Draco finally opened his eyes; the pupils were wide and the irises liquid pools rimming the black. “You admire me?”

            “I do,” she said, and softly smiled with closed lips. “Sometimes,” she wryly added, “and other times you can be an unconquerable ass.”

            “I aim to please,” he acknowledged her smile with one of his own, although his was small and tight. Then he frowned. “I apologise.” He gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t have hired Dennis without your permission. You are right, it is your shop, your business and your dream. I shouldn’t have,” he paused, seeming to chew over the word, “interfered.”

            “Dennis was a good hire,” she mollified. “I’ll be happy to accept any of your advice in the future.”

            “And I’m sorry I said that bit about money and…I know you’re not the type of woman to be bought.” Draco spoke quickly, at a gabbled pace. “To you, money is useful, but you would never lower yourself to be a commodity.” He looked at her, his silvereyes bright under lowered brows. “But, I am not sorry for kissing you. And I never will be. So, if you want me to apologisefor that too, then you’re out of luck.”

            “For someone, who I suspect, justgave what was their first apology, you did remarkablywell,” she said, a teasing note to her voice.

            “Less of the lip, Miss Granger.” He smirked, and she’d never been so pleased to see that cocky curl of his lip. He stood up and offered her his hand. “Come on, let me see you home.”

 

Hermione decided she much preferred walking in the moonlight with Draco, than flying down Diagon Alley. For one thing, her stomach didn’t lurch, she didn’t have to worry about wind hair and there wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling in her belly that she got when her body was pressed to Draco’s. While moonlit walks were romantic, they didn’t hold the passion of a close broomstick ride.

            As before, Draco escorted her home, accompanied her up thestairs and waited patiently for her to open her front door. He gallantly passed her the large candle he’d lugged around all day and she briefly left him on her doorway to put the candle safely into her flat.

            “Thank you, Malfoy,” she said, “for seeing me home.” She leant against her doorframe, the door in one hand and the other hand balanced on her waist.

            “You are welcome, sweet.” His teeth kissed the endearment ‘sweet’, causing her to focus in on his mouth. He noticed, and as she watched he smiled, his firm lips slinking into a seductive smirk which reeked of practice and past misuse. Her stomach did a little flip, half acknowledgingthe charm of his smile and also itsabusive power. He was trying to beguile her, as she was sure he’d done with many other women.

            Hermione purposefully danced her gaze from his mouth, to his eyes and then back down to his mouth. There was a palpable crackle of electricity between them, and the fine hairs on her arm prickled and stood erect. She sweetly smiled and teetered on the balls of her feet, swaying towards him like the motion of a Newton’s cradle.

            His breath fanned her lips.

            “Goodnight, Draco,” she whispered and swung the door shut.

            Hermione would always treasure the memory of Malfoy’s expression when she closed the door in his face.

 

            “Hermione!” Draco shouted through the door. Her door shook slightly as he forcefully rapped the wood. _Knock. Bang. Pound._

            Hermione confidently watched the vibrating door, knowing that it would hold. She was after all the brightest witch of her age, and she didn’t deserve the title if she couldn’t keep Malfoy from knocking down her door.

            “Don’t you dare shut this door on me,” he called, composure gone.

            _Bang_.

            “I’m a Malfoy.”

            _Pound_.

            “No door is closed to me.”

            _Whack. Whack._ “Alohomora…Shit. _Of course,_ that wouldn’t work. Duh!”

            _Knock_.

            “Come on Granger, don’t leave me hanging.”

            There was a high-pitched yell from down the stairs.

            “Hey! I don’t give a damn if you were asleep,” Draco yelled back. His banging seemed to have woken her downstairs neighbour. _Oops,_ Hermione thought, _well she’d never much liked the older witch anyhow._

            “My fiancée has just locked me out,” Draco continued, still shouting at her neighbour.

            He paused, listening to the reply.

            “I didn’t do anything!”

            Pause.

            “What do you mean by, ‘I’m a man, I must have done something’?”

            Pause.

            “That is a very cynical view of the world, madam.”

            Pause.

            “Then your husband is a fool. I don’t even have to see you to know that you must be an intoxicating creature.”

            Pause.

            _Was that a female giggle?_

            “A bed for the night? Why, what a generous offer,” Draco crooned, Hermione’s door long forgotten.

            Pause.

            “And breakfast in the morning. Madam, you spoil me.”

            Pause.

            “Eggs, bacon and sausage. I am partial to a bit of sausage in the morning.”

            Pause.

            “Why madam, you make me blush.” He gave a low chuckle.

            Draco gave her a triumphant smile, as Hermione ripped the door open.

 

Draco’s eyes were a little wild and his hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it. Hermione suddenly had the white-hot urge to bury her hands in his hair and pull and twist the fine locks between her fingers.

            “You shut the door on me,” he said.

            “Yes?” she said feigning a polite inquiry, as if it was everyday she had a handsome wizard trying to break down her door. “Can I help you?” _God, it felt good to put Draco on the receiving end of a smirk_.

            “Let me in.” It was not a request.

            “You know,” Hermione stretched her arms and gave an exaggerated yawn, “I’m feeling pretty tired.”

            “I don’t care. Let me in.”

            “I- “

            He didn’t wait for her to give him another excuse. Draco grabbed her by the waist, his large hands spanning her sides. “If you won’t let me in, then you’ll come out,” he growled and tugged her out of the comfort of her flat.

            “Draco!” she squeaked in alarm. Her hands automatically came up to press against his chest, but he crushed her to him, pinning her hands between her own breasts and his chest.

            He locked his arms around her body. “Kiss me.”

            “I won’t.” She shook her head, trying to doubly assert her resolve.

            “Yes, you will.”

            “This is hardly the way to woo me,” she scoffed.

            “I don’t need to woo you. You already want me.”    

            “I most certainly do not.”

            “Liar,” he whispered. “Now kiss me.”

            “Draco, this is hardly appropriate.” She tried for a different tactic. Draco’schest, only covered by his thin top, felt wonderfully real under her palms. He was radiating heat like a second sun and his warmth was sweeping through her body, lighting each nerve end.

            “I’ll tell you what isn’t appropriate,” he said, drawing her attention to his lips. “The way you check me out when you think I’m not looking. I can feel your eyes.”

            “I do not!” _How did he know?_

            “I can practically see the drool.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous.”

            “And when I kissed you this morning. You. Liked. It _. A lot_. So much that it frightened you, because you haven’t felt anything like that in a long time. If ever.”

            “You are awfully conceited.”

            “True. But at least I’m not lying.” If possible,he squeezed her body closer. His hip bones were jutting into her belly. “You may not like me. But you want me,” he finished with almost childlike glee.

            “No.”

            “Prove it.” He traced a circular pattern on her back. “Kiss me. And if you can tell me you didn’t feel anything, I’ll let you go.”

            “Easy.”

            “Go on then.”

 

            If Malfoy hadn’t been holding her, Hermione would have squared her shoulders and flicked her hair back with a cool and sophisticated air. But as it was, all she could do was confidently tilt her chin and glare at him.

            “I’m waiting,” he mocked.

            “I hate you,” she lied.

            “I highly doubt that.”

            He smirked, and she did the only thing she knew to wipe that smile from his face. She kissed him.

           

Thank you to my beta Sunshine Katz


	14. The One With Half Nudity

**I am so sorry for the delay in this chapter. I have had an essay to complete and had to give it my full attention. Thank you for your patience, and I hope it has been worth the wait.**

...

“I’m waiting,” Draco mocked.

            “I hate you,” she lied.

            “I highly doubt that.” 

            He smirked, and she did the only thing she knew to wipe that smile from his face. She kissed him.

 

Hermione had planned her kiss to be chaste; a simple peck that would be over before it began. But like the best laid plans, it wasn’t meant to be. 

            She brushed her mouth to his. Draco stilled but gave a masculine groan. Her lips lingered, quick dry kisses, tracing the corners of his mouth before moving to the plump centre. Draco wasn’t moving; his hands were paused on her lower back and his mouth was resolutely closed under her onslaught. Hermione laid a half open kiss on his lips before pulling away, confused.  _This was what he’d wanted right?_

            Draco’s eyes were closed, but his brows were furrowed like oak. His lips were freshly pink, like the juice of spring strawberries. She was sure her own lips were ruddy, but there was something very satisfying in knowing she’d stained his mouth. 

            She tried to extract herself from his embrace, but he lightly squeezed her in warning.

 “Feel anything?” Draco asked. He still sounded a little breathless. 

            “Not a thing.” Another lie. He was obviously a corrupting influence on her; she’d never fibbed as much in her life as she had this week. 

            “Good,” he gruffly said. His eyes flicked to her mouth, and her lips automatically parted under the intensity of his stare. He bent his head and whispered, “Then you won’t mind if I do this.” Too late, Hermione realised he’d taken her rebuff as a challenge.    Draco kissed her. His mouth feeding her long slow kisses, angling and suggestively parting her lips. He pressed his tongue to the seam of her mouth and, pressing his advantage, slid his tongue into her mouth. He played her for a few long hot seconds, before he broke away. 

            “How about now?”

            Her legs felt like jelly, and her belly was somersaulting like an Olympic gymnast. Draco’s lips were red; the innocent strawberry pink had bled and now his mouth was the colour of spilt wine on a cream carpet. 

            “Nothing,” she said, avoiding his grey eyes, “but I commend you for your efforts. It’s a shame that- ”

            This time, when he kissed her, he pushed her into the door frame. Urging his body closer to hers, until she couldn’t be certain where she ended and he began. His lips were insistent, coaxing the breath from her body as she shamelessly sighed. He briefly smiled against her mouth, before restarting his offence. Languid open-mouthed kisses, the forced dance of her tongue with his, but all the while his hands remained respectfully on her back. Draco didn’t need to seduce her with his hands, his tongue was talented enough. 

            “Now?” he barked. He was breathing hard, racking in breaths that caused his chest to powerfully rise and fall under her hands. She was melting, like candy floss on the tongue, soon she’d dissolve into a warm syrup. 

            “Something. A tiny something,” she admitted. Draco rolled his eyes, even with his flushed cheeks and lips he still managed to convey his exasperation with her brazen dishonesty. 

            “I should feel sorry for you,” Draco said, urging her head to the side with the tip of his nose, “for the onslaught of pure pleasure I’m about to inflict on you – but I find myself feeling you deserve it.”

            Hermione wanted to quip back a witty repartee, something along the lines of ‘do your worst’, but then Draco kissed the sensitive spot under her ear and the retort died in her throat. 

             _Oh, that felt good._ Why did a man with the face of a Michelangelo angel have to have the mouth of a Faustian Devil? The nervous fluttering feeling in her stomach was creeping down, lower and lower, leaving a tingly trail in its wake.

             Draco leisurely kissed her neck, and Hermione shivered.

            There was none of the primal urgency that had been in his kisses this morning. This evening, he stroked her skin and nibbled her flesh as if he had all the time in the world. He raked his lips down to the wings of her collarbone, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the bone until he met the barrier of her top. Then he growled in obvious annoyance at the obstacle. To explore her skin further he would have to use his hands, which he’d resolutely not moved from her lower back during the whole passionate exchange. 

            “You have a choice,” Draco said. “Either you can invite me in, where we can  _proceed_ with wherever this goes on the relative comfort of your sofa.” He briefly sucked the bare skin on her shoulders, eliciting a tight gasp from her open mouth. 

            “And the other option?” she asked, her voice sounding as unsteady as her legs felt.

            “Or I stop now and leave you panting in your hallway.” From the feel of his mouth, Hermione knew he was smirking. “Ladies’ choice.”

            She didn’t feel like it was much of a choice, not with Draco sucking kisses which drew heat between her legs like a camp fire. 

            “I can give you a minute to think it over,” he said magnanimously, touching the tip of his tongue to her pulse point. “Take your time.” His tongue traced the fragile bones of her neck; descending and kissing the subtle slope of her breasts, before he was thwarted once more by her clothing. “Damn.” His throaty laugh tickled her. “You need to start wearing lower cut tops. It would make my job  _so_ much easier.”

            “Draco.” She cleared her throat. “Draco,” she said, and was annoyed at the moan in her voice. “I don’t like you.”

            “I know, sweet.”  _He knew_ , and he also knew that she couldn’t say the last bit. He knew with all honesty, she couldn’t say she didn’t want him. “However, I still sense a ‘but’.” 

            “But,” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “Damn you. But…come in.”

            Draco gave a low sigh of approval. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

 

            Since she was young Hermione liked to surprise people. When she was ten years old she’d surprised her parents with a very burnt breakfast in bed on their anniversary. At school, she’d taken great delight in reading ahead and impressing her professors with her acumen. 

But with Draco, Hermione did something that surprised herself. She took one look at Draco’s handsome smirking face and set her own teeth in a grin. Then, she grabbed the lapels of Draco’s leather jacket and pulled him into her apartment in one swift motion. 

            “Hermione!” Draco gasped, as she pushed the apartment door shut behind him. “Not that I’m complaining – ”

            “Funny, because that sounds awfully like the start of a complaint,” she pointed out. She pressed one hand to his chest and shoved him against the door.  _Ha_ , she inwardly jeered,  _see how he likes being pressed against hard wood_. Then she realised what she’d thought and vainly tried to suppressive her blush. “Listen here, Malfoy,” she said, covering her embarrassment with bravado, “where do you get off giving me orders and ultimatums?” She stood on tiptoe, leaning her face closer to his and braced herself on his chest. 

            “Currently, I am very much getting off you like  _this_ ,” he drawled. He looked entirely too relaxed, propped up against her door and smirking down at her. 

            “Like what, pray?”

            He sucked his breath in, then released it in a slow exhale. “You, looking like you are going to jump and have your wicked way with me.”

            The blood was rushing through her veins, so fast that she could heard the loud thump of her heart beat. “I won’t jump,” she said.

            “And what about the wicked way bit?”

            “You’re the only wicked one here, Malfoy.”

            “Oh no, my sweet,” he purred, and tilted his face down so his lips were parallel with her own, “I think you have the capacity to outstrip me on that front.”

            “That,” and she said this with absolute certainly, “is not possible.”

            He chuckled and pressed a sly kiss to her mouth. And another. 

            Hermione felt the butterflies start in her stomach once more. She readjusted her grip on Draco’s jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. He helped her, shrugging out of the jacket and letting it fall to the floor. He reached for her, but Hermione darted back, drawing him into the room. 

            He stalked her, following her quick backward movements. Hermione felt her calves hit her sofa, and Draco quickly made up the distance between them and pushed her back onto the cushions. 

            Hermione looked up at Draco. The electric light was forming a yellow halo around his head, bleaching his hair to acrylic white. His face was shadowed, his eyes liquid pools that flittered in a jagged triangle, across her eyes and down to her mouth. 

            He slunk down, pressing a knee beside her thigh, the sofa indenting under his weight. His hands slapped the cushioned back, propping himself mere centimetres from her nose. She felt, rather than saw, his biceps bulge, flexing under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, as he lowered his head. But he skipped past her mouth and instead pressed his face into the mass of her hair. She heard him sniff, and that sound sent a jolt of desire down her spine and into her groin. 

            From where his head was tucked into her hair, Hermione could see the white skin of his neck. She was so close she could have tasted him. Her tongue darted out. 

            She felt Draco shivered at the contact of her tongue; he dug through her hair to place a single kiss on the side of her neck. 

            She shuffled closer, pressing her lips to the skin she’d licked. His skin felt wonderfully smooth under her lips and she caressed him with her bottom lip, tasting his salt once more. 

            “Granger,” Draco muttered, “ _please_.”

            She reached out, fingering the fashion frayed edge of his top, rubbing the material on her thumb. Her knuckles brushed the hard plane of his stomach, and the muscles contracted from Draco’s sharp intake of breath. His stomach was hard, and she felt the knotted muscles which indicated the defined six pack hidden under the shirt.  _Dang._   

            “God, Granger,” Draco said, kissing the edge of her jaw, “enough with the teasing. Take the damn shirt off.” But he didn’t wait. Straightening, he grabbed the side of the shirt and pulled if over his head. 

            Hermione gulped. His body was amazing. His chest was modelworthy, his skin golden and shadowed with indents of muscles. Her eyes followed the branches of his collarbone which stuck out above the discs of his pectorals, to the narrow V-shape of his hips that formed a downward arrow leading to his groin. Hermione stopped herself before she could look  _there_. If  _there_ was anything like her imagination, then it would be as hard and as impressive as the rest of him.  _Oh god, she needed to stop thinking of the word ‘hard’ in relation to Malfoy._

            He must have noticed her deliberate aversion to looking at his groin, because he cocked her a grin, which was, annoyingly, made all the more appealing by his slightly mussed hair and bruised lips. He dropped his t-shirt on the floor and leaned over her once more. 

            

Draco’s kisses made her feel wanton. It made her giddy to have this man’s whole attention on her, to be at the full mercy of his charm. It was like she’d drunk just the right amount of champagne; the bubbles in her tummy, the excited tingles down her spine, and the heady rush of her thoughts.  

            She shoved at him, and he let her push him back onto the sofa. She followed him down, wriggling her body on top of his. Her hands stroking and touching the panels of his skin. She moved down her neck, across the expanse of his shoulders till her fingers brushed his nipple. He jerked, and she bit him. 

            Draco’s hands were running up and down her back, frantic motions that were full of unsatisfying friction. She realised he was keeping his hands preoccupied, letting her lead this exploration. His resolve frustrated her and, at the same time, sent a sweeping tenderness through her. 

            Hermione wondered how quickly she could break his restraint?

            Now, that thought made her pause. 

            

            Hermione scuttled back to the other end of the couch. She probably looked to Draco like a startled crab. A big, blushing crab. With wild hair.  _Very sexy_. 

            “What’s wrong?” Draco asked, bracing himself up on his elbows. There was a mouth sized red mark next to his nipple, specifically her mouth size. 

            “Nothing,” she quickly said.  _Too_ quickly. He was giving her an unconvinced look. 

            “It’s never nothing with you,” he said. He exhaled and sat up. Taking her hand, he added, “Tell me what’s going on in that big Granger brain?”

            Hermione didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know where to look either. Between the sight of her hands knotted with his, to the wondrous scene of Draco’s naked chest, it was difficult to choose a spot. She decided on the floor. That was safe. The floor wasn’t a breathing mass of hot, hard man. Oh god. Her gaze flitted back to his chest, following the light-coloured hair down his navel until…

            “When did you undo your jeans?” she asked in surprise. The fly was open and revealing the taut fabric of his green boxers.  _Green_ , she inwardly sighed,  _so typical_. 

            “Ah,” Draco said, and had the grace to look a little abashed. “Take no notice.” Hermione couldn’t not notice. There was a lot to notice. “I needed to give myself some room,” he continued. “It’s getting cramped down there.”

            “Oh,” she managed. She quickly looked back at the floor.  _The carpet was getting a little worn,_ she thought,  _perhaps a good conditioning treatment would be in order._   

            “Hermione,” Draco said, squeezing her hand, “you’re muttering about the carpet?”

            “I was just thinking it could do with a deep clean.”

            “Did you clean the damn thing this morning?”

            “Yes. But I just noticed that it’s a bit tired looking.”

            She heard Draco snort. “Thank Merlin my masculine pride is so resilient, otherwise I might be insulted by your sudden interest in the flooring.”

            “I’m sure there are plenty - no, scores - of other females who would be happy to flatter you, Malfoy,” she snapped.

            “Funnily enough,” he gently poked her arm, “I’m not interested in these ‘scores’ of other women. Only you.”

             It was her turn to snort.

            “You don’t believe me?” Draco asked. “Do you need more proof?” 

            Hermione felt the blush rise in her face, she wanted to beat her embarrassment down with a bat. She couldn’t help but be very aware of Draco, and  _other_ parts of him. And she didn’t think she could beat _that_ down with a bat. 

            “Why did you come to the Potters’ house last night?” Hermione hurriedly asked. 

            “Merlin. You know how to kill my arousal! Just mention Potter.”

            “I’d especially asked you not to,” she persevered, ignoring Draco’s annoyed exhale.  

            “As I said at the time.” He placed his hand next to hers. “I wanted to check on you.”

            “Why?”

            “Demanding little thing, aren’t you?” He paused, he seemed to be chewing over his answer. “After you’d borne my mother’s probing comments and defeated my father with nothing but a meatball,” he stopped to chuckle. “I could hardly leave you to face down your own demons alone.”

            “Harry and Ginny are not demons.”

            “And how about Weasley?” 

She looked at him for the first time in minutes. He smiled at her, a lopsided grin that looked devilish on the rest of his angelic face. He brushed his pinkie finger along the side of her hand, a cautious movement like one would give to a frightened animal.  

“You know,” he said, “when I’m old and still devastatingly handsome, I will tell my children that story. Of how my father was slayed by one precisely thrown meatball, hurled by one particular girl. See,” he whispered, “you’re always saving me.”

            “I didn’t do it just for you,” she said. “I won’t be browbeaten by your parents.” She was still smarting over the Ron comment. Probably because it was truer than she would like, but the way that he was touching her hand was so exquisitely tender that she couldn’t pull away. 

            “And that makes it all the better.” His smile became softer. “You did something for yourself.”

            He held her gaze for a second too long, then he looked away. He gave an awkward cough. “Err…If we’re sharing, then I heard from my mother.” 

            Hermione made a surprised noise. 

            “Yes,” Draco confirmed, and the corners of his mouth stiffened. “She’s very excited about the wedding. The preparations are going ‘wonderfully’, apparently. I haven’t read such a happy letter from her in years.” Draco bit the inside of his mouth. “It’s nice.” 

            Hermione remembered the slightly frantic expression in Narcissa’s face whenever she looked at Draco. “When was the last time you saw her, apart from the other day?” she asked.

            “A while. I haven’t been around as much as I should have.” He gave her a weary sigh. “Mother was always so self-assured. Not only in herself, but also in father. But now.” He trailed off.  

            “Go on.”

            “She’s sad. It’s like there are these cracks. First it was something little, like a shop not wanting to serve her, or a people crossing the street to avoid her. These would knock her, chip of a sliver of her confidence. However, in the past couple of years it’s been getting worse. They don’t receive any direct post anymore. After the death threats got - shall I say colourful - I organised that all their correspondences would work through my office. Not that there is much left after I sift through the hate mail.” 

            Hermione hesitated before placing her hand over his. 

            “Then no one, and I mean no one, will work for them,” he angrily continued. “No one will sell them food, mow the lawn -  _hell_ \- no one will even cut their hair. I have to personally hire out a whole salon for a whole day just so my mother can get her hair done. In secret. I had to plead with Giovanni himself, just to accept my reservation at his restaurant. And then…well, you saw what happened.” 

            He picked up her hand and cradled it between his palms. “When father behaves like that I can see why people don’t want much to do with them. But mother, she thrives on people and society, and now no one wants anything to do with her. She’s broken, Hermione,” he said, and she could feel the slight tremor in Draco’s hands, “I can’t fix her. No matter how hard I work. I can’t.”

            Hermione kept her eyes resolutely on their joined hands. She just knew that Draco wouldn’t feel comfortable with her watching his vulnerability. It was one thing to hear it, and quite another to see it. “You don’t have to fix her,” she said, squeezing Draco’s fingers, “you just have to love her.”

             “I don’t think I’m much good at that.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Us Malfoys aren’t known for our lovable natures.”

            “You’re not as bad as you think.” Hermione regretted the words almost the moment they were out of her mouth: the grin Draco was giving her was intolerably smug. 

            “Was that a compliment? I think I shall swoon. Ha! Okay, okay.” Hermione gave him a light tap on the arm with her free hand. “Enough with the hitting,” Draco laughed.

            “Maybe you need some practice,” she quipped. “A lot of practice.”

            He pressed a swift kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Then, I will rely on you, the-nearly-Mrs Malfoy, to show me how.” 

            Her heart began to pound again, and she felt the palms begin to sweat. He seemed to sense her reaction to him, because he wolfishly grinned before pushing her back onto the sofa, and, with long limbed grace, crawled towards her. 

            “Draco, I know what you’re doing,” Hermione said, alarmed to have over six feet of man descend over her. “You can’t distract me with your attentions.”

            He crooked a finger under her shirt, slowly revealing her stomach inch by inch. 

            “You underestimate my abilities,” he said. His lips bushed the strip of skin he’d revealed. 

            “I don’t think I have… _ah_!” 

            His five o’clock shadow rasped over her tummy as he kissed her, winding serpent kisses over her belly button to the grooves between her ribs. He tonged the spaces between her ribs, lavishing her like a prime cut of meat. 

             _What was that noise?_

            She felt Draco push her bra up, exposing a few more millimetres. 

             _There it was again._ A tapping, like the bouncing of gravel on a drive. 

            “Draco?” Hermione said, “I think-”

            “Don’t think,” he said, his lips hot on her skin. He was kissing the skin above her ribs, red from where her bra had cut in during the day. “You shouldn’t wear bras anymore,” he said, massaging the marks on her skin, “I think you’d be better forgoing them from now on.”

            “You would say that.” She breathily giggled. 

            Then there was another tap, and this time she was certain it was coming from the window. 

            Hermione jumped in surprise, and accidentally dislodged Draco’s mouth from her stomach. “What was that?” 

            Draco placed another kiss on her stomach. “Nothing,” he said, “probably just your neighbours.” Once more, he ran kisses up her ribs, before settling on a spot under her breast bone. 

            Her brain felt like pudding, and she couldn’t seem to bring herself to stop Draco’s clever mouth. “No, it came from the window,” she muzzily insisted. 

            Draco didn’t reply. His mouth was otherwise occupied. 

             _Oh, dear Lord_. He squeezed her jean clad hips, all the while concentrating his lips on a spot just below her bra. 

            “Draco,” she vainly tried again. But then, there was a loud thump coming unmistakeably from the window. 

            “Damn. You’re right,” Draco said, ripping his mouth away from her skin. He quickly got up off her and walked toward the window. Hermione was grateful for that, she didn’t think she had the capacity to get up straight away. Her legs were wobbly, and she was sure if she tried to stand she’d fall. 

            She heard Draco drag the curtains open. 

            “Who is it?” she asked, sitting up and pulling her top back down her body. 

            “Blaise,” Draco said, his tone a mixture of surprise and fury, “and he’s only wearing one shoe.” 

            “Huh?”

            “Come and see.”

            She hurried over. Draco was right. Blaise Zabini was standing below her window, waving his arms like a windmill and missing a shoe. Hermione spotted the missing shoe lying a few feet away from Blaise. He seemed to have taken off his shoe and chucked it at her window. There was a boot shaped print in the middle of her nice clean glass.

            Hermione opened the window. “Blaise, why are you throwing items of your clothing at my window?” she yelled down.

            “Because stones didn’t work,” Blaise said, as he bend to pick up his discarded shoe. “I can see why now.” He waved the shoe in Draco’s direction. Shirtless Draco, with a wicked looking hickey on his right pectoral and his fly undone. Even in the darkness Blaise couldn’t be mistaken in what they’d been doing. Hermione blushed. 

            “You’d better have a bloody good reason for being here, Blaise?” Draco interjected, apparently not at all embarrassed at his half naked state. 

            “Ron Weasley is at  _The Silver Asp_ ,” Blaise shouted back. “He’s fucked mate, mouthing off. I can’t get him out without doing some serious damage to his freckled arse.”

            “What, you mean Ron is at the bar?” Hermione asked, concern lacing her voice. 

            “Yes. And he’s smashing it up as we speak.”

            “Oh God,” she muttered. “Okay, I’ll be right down.” She ducked back inside the window and desperately searched her discarded clothes for her wand. 

            “I’m coming too,” Draco said, as he snatched up his top.

            “Not a good idea.” She pulled her sweater over her head. “Ron is going to be difficult enough to deal with without you egging him on.”

            “For Merlin’s sake, Granger,” Draco snapped at her, as he buttoned up his jeans. “He’s breaking up  _my_ bar, of course I’m coming.”

            “Draco, I don’t –” Hermione stopped as Draco abruptly took hold of her arm. 

            “Listen here,” he said. His face was inches from hers, and she could make out the silver threads in his wild eyes. “Whether you like it or not I’m going with you. Weasley has touched enough of what is mine tonight, I won’t be letting him have you as well.”

            A hot wave of emotion passed through her body; anger over Draco’s possessive dominance, mixed with a disconcerting amount of lust.  _Mine_ , he’d said.  _God, what was wrong with her?_ He was being stubborn and demanding. She should be irked, and not be finding this weirdly romantic. 

            Hermione shook her head, as much as to clear her thoughts as well as to voice her protests. 

            “You are not going to change my mind,” Draco stated. He let her go and grabbed his jacket. 

            “Fine,” she said. “But on the way I’m sending a patronus to Harry. Someone has to have a clear head.”

            “More encounters with your friends,” he said, acerbically. “How charming.”

 ...

**Thank you to my wonderful beta sunshine katz**


	15. The One Where Draco Can’t Get No Satisfaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG!!! 600 kudos!! Woweeeeee!!

As she, Draco and Blaise hurriedly approached _The Silver Asp_ , Hermione felt her heart palpitate and a cold sweat break out on her forehead. She could hear Ron. Hear his yells, the smash of glass and the dull heavy thumps. It sounded like he was throwing the bar stools against the walls.

Draco put his hand on the door, but Hermione halted him, resting her hand over his. "Let me," she said, and entered the bar, the two men hot on her heels.

"Ron," she called, "Ron, are you alright?"

The bar was in a worse state than she'd expected. The bottles of liquor, which had been pristinely organised, were now shattered, fuming the room with the expensive smell of single malt. Several of the metal bar stools had dents in them from where they'd been pushed to the ground, the steel legs jutting up like dead spiders. A few of the solid wooden tables had been upended, drinks and beer mats scattered on the floor like discarded playing cards. The patrons had all left in a hurry once the trouble had started. Hermione anxiously bit her lip, wildly looking around at the carnage and for the tell-tale streak of red hair.

"Where's the bastard gone?" Blaise said, bewildered. "I swore I heard him still at it just now."

Hermione lightly fingered her wand. She silently agreed with Blaise but hoped that Ron had decided to make a quick getaway rather than hiding like a fool.

She started when Ron emerged from behind the bar, which was blessedly untouched, being far too large for him to damage. There was a small cut across his cheek, possibly from when he'd smashed the glassware. His hair was a tangled mess above his eyes, which were red and darted from her to Malfoy with alarming speed.

"Ron," Hermione calmly repeated. "What are you doing?" She couldn't see his wand. _Where was his wand?_ If she could see his wand, verify that he was holding it, then she could disarm him without fear of repercussions. She might be the best friend of Harry Potter, but Ron was still an Auror; it would be like hitting a policeman.

"I've come for you," Ron said, the words slurring together into one phrase. "You don't belong here. You don't belong with him." Ron punctuated each sentence by pointing a finger at Draco. Hermione noticed that while his body shook his arm was steady.

"You can't have her," Draco said, fury emitting from every word.

_Oh, my lord, spare her from men and their autocratic ways_. Out loud she said, "Draco, quiet." And to Ron she continued in the same lulling tones, "Ron, you've got a couple of cuts just here," she touched her own cheek, mimicking Ron's wound, "can I come and have a look at them?"

Ron nodded, his head lolling with the motion.

Hermione went to move toward him, when Draco caught her hand. "Hermione," he urgently whispered, "you cannot seriously go near him, he's – "

"I have to," she softly said.

"Let her go, Draco," Blaise interjected. "She'll get him patched up in time for Potter to come and play nursemaid."

Hermione briefly smiled at Blaise, then untangled her hand from Draco's. "I'll be fine."

She approached Ron, cautiously as one would do to a stray dog. Her hands outstretched, palms open showing that she was unarmed. Ron was swaying now, he reeked of booze and sweat and Hermione almost gagged as she rushed the last few steps to catch him before he fell on the glass strewn floor.

Ron slung an arm over her shoulder, using her to support his weight and managing to cop a feel at the same time. From the low growl Draco emitted, she knew he had seen Ron's touch. _It wasn't much of a feel_ , she tried to justify, _it wasn't like he hadn't made that move on her hundreds of times when they were going out._ For some reason, her inward rationalisation of Ron's actions didn't quite convince her as it normally did.

She swept a patch of the counter free from glass, nicking her fingers in the process. "Hermione," Ron said, as she propped him on the counter, "I knew you'd choose me over _him_." Ron regained some balance and almost seemed to want to lunge at Draco, but Hermione firmly held him back.

"Hush now," she coaxed. "Let me look at that cut." Hermione lightly brushed Ron's cheek, but he still flinched.

"That hurts," he snapped, glaring at her under ruddy brows.

She ignored him. "Where is your wand?" She would much rather use Ron's own wand to heal his cuts; at least that way she could passively disarm him.

"Back pocket. Jeans," Ron grunted. "You can get it." Hermione awkwardly flexed her fingers and reached into Ron's pocket. "Can't keep your hands off me," he said, as she accidentally brushed his backside as she took hold of his wand.

"Draco," she heard Blaise warn, "cool it. She's only helping him." Hermione didn't have to look round at Draco to know he was furious, she could easily imagine the whiteness of his face and the tight press of his lips as he fought back an insult.

She felt a sudden pang of sadness. She'd loved the redness of Draco's lips when she kissed him, his bemused expression when she'd liberally touched his body. Now all that was gone, to be replaced by a snarky fake fiancé, who would later likely rip her throat out rather than place sweet kisses on it.

By the time Hermione had healed the superficial cuts on Ron's face, and lightly bandaged the deeper ones on his hands (he'd have to go to St Mungo's for them), Harry had arrived. Harry looked frazzled, but his expression turned to stern anger as he took in the scene around him: from the busted bar, to the smouldering Slytherins standing in the middle of the room, and finally to his friends, one, as ever, leaning on the other.

"What happened," he asked Hermione, as he hoisted Ron up, balancing his weight on his shoulder. Ron had gone quiet, mutely watching Harry and Hermione converse.

"Ron was harassing Blaise Zabini," Hermione briefly stated. "Blaise and Draco own this bar together, I guess he presumed Draco might be here. Or I would."

Harry pursed his lips. "Damage?"

"To Ron, a few cuts. There could still be some glass embedded in the deeper ones. Take him to the hospital. To the bar," Hermione ruefully gestured to the mess, "fairly significant property damage."

"Was it all Ron?" Harry asked, casting a side-long look at the two Slytherins.

"Look Potter," Blaise interjected, "I know better than to touch a Weasley. Everything you see here was done by his fair hand."

Harry looked at her for confirmation. She sighed. "Blaise came to get me once all the customers had gotten out of the way." Discreetly she added, "I believe him."

It was Harry's turn to sigh. "Alright. I'm taking Ron to the hospital. Do you want to come?" he asked Hermione.

Hermione quickly looked at Draco: it was all the answer she needed. "No," she said. "No, I'll stay with Draco."

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt. "Sure. Try and smooth it over with Malfoy," Harry said to her, "I'd hate to have to publicly discipline Ron."

Hermione scowled. "And what? Use my feminine wiles?"

"He cracked a few bottles and broke a few chairs, but I bet he didn't lay a finger on anyone," Harry smartly challenged.

"I won't make promises," she coolly replied. "What about the property damage?"

"Insurance?"

"Harry," she said, shocked, "when did you become so sharp?" This was not the jokey Harry she'd spoken to the other night, not the man who doted on his wife and made an awful cup of tea. In the dusky light of the bar Harry looked cold, his green eyes fixed like jade and his hair spiked like onyx coloured thorns.

"Probably about the same time you started keeping secrets," he parried. They both scowled at each other, each knowing the other's argument had merits but neither willing to back down. "I'll talk to Zabini and Malfoy later," Harry offered. "It doesn't hurt to have me in your debt."

Harry took Ron away. Ron had been drunkenly mumbling a _Weird Sisters_ song, but he left without a fuss, not even giving Hermione a second look. Harry kissed Hermione on the cheek by way of a half apology, formally nodded to Draco and Blaise, and left. Once Harry had gone, Blaise and Draco had turned their backs to her and talked privately. After only five minutes, Blaise had clapped Draco on the shoulder, muttered something about seeing him tomorrow and left. He spared Hermione a curt wave, before he sauntered out of the ruined bar. Then it was just two.

A sullen hush descended between them. Hermione still stood behind the bar, unconsciously rubbing her arms, trying to generate some warmth in an atmosphere that was as chilly as a restaurant freezer. Draco had blindly looked around, before focusing on a battered chair which he'd righted and then sat on. He rested his arms on his knees and stared at the floor.

Her cut finger hurt, but the sight of a beaten Draco hurt more. Hermione wanted to go to him, put her arms around him and tell him she was sorry. But her feet were rooted to the floor, and all she could do was hold herself and watch him.

He broke the silence first. "I have to be here tomorrow morning." His voice was empty. "I'll come and meet your parents in the afternoon. I'm needed here."

"Of course," she said. Her eyes misted as she looked at Draco and at the shattered remains around her. Through her tears the broken glass glittered, the edges shining like the stars on a moonless night. She wiped her eyes roughly with the back of her hand. The feel of her hot tears on her skin seemed to wake her legs, and she found herself walking towards Draco. He didn't look up, although he must have heard the crunch of glass under her feet as she approached.

"Draco I…I" she fumbled the words.

"Don't say you are sorry," he harshly cut in. "Don't."

"I'm sorry," she said it anyway. "This is wrong."

"You went to him," he said, "you went to Weasley."

"Out of duty, Draco," she said. "I didn't particularly want to deal with him, but at the time I was the only one who could."

"And what about me?" Draco asked. He looked up. His eyes were such a shocking shade of pale grey that they almost looked white. "Where was your duty to me when Potter manipulated you into not making a fuss? You know what happened was wrong, you know Ron abused his power as Harry Potter's friend."

He spoke starkly, brittle words that cracked like ice on a lake. "Yet you went along with it. Why? Where was your Gryffindor courage then, Hermione? Where was your sense of duty?"

Draco abruptly stood up. He didn't touch her, but instead loomed above her, his eyes burning with winter frost. "If you'd asked me I would have forgotten it. Forgotten that _he_ felt vindicated to come and destroy something of mine, that he misused his position over me. If you'd only asked. Instead you conferred with Potter, wrangling your friend out of trouble." He looked ready to spit but she didn't back off, only met his burnished ire head on. "If you'd asked, and not taken, I would have given it all to you."

She would not shy away, even when the tears burned her eyes and threatened to trickle down her face in fat drops. Draco didn't mind her tears, he just stood and stared into her brown eyes, daring her to disagree with him, and knowing her well enough to guess she couldn't. He was right, and she was disappointed in herself.

A tear dropped and rolled down her hot cheek. Draco's eyes followed the lone tear's descent, and then tracked her hand as she made to wipe it aside.

"What happened to your finger?" Draco asked. Even the angry rasp of his voice couldn't hide his concern.

Hermione felt her mouth form the word 'nothing', but she stopped herself. 'Nothing' hadn't worked on Draco earlier, and she doubted it would now. "It's just a few cuts from the glass," she said, examining her hands, which were littered with small red lines. "They're more like papercuts really," she reassured.

"No, they're not." Draco pulled out his wand. "Hands out Granger," he commanded. She obliged. He levelled his wand over her open hands and whispered, " _Episkey_." She felt the familiar hot and cold prickle as the magic sewed her skin together. "There," he said, pocketing his wand once the spell was finished.

"Thank you," she said, still staring down at her freshly healed hands. She felt odd, like she'd forgotten her keys or had walked into a room and couldn't recall why she'd gone there in the first place.

"Silly girl," Draco muttered. "Not much point helping other people if you go and get yourself hurt in the process."

The blurriness was leaving her eyes. "That's what being a friend is all about," she said.

"Maybe," he said. "But I don't see Weasley doing the same for you."

"He has. Not now," she ruefully conceded, "but in the past."

He took a half-step back and surveyed her down his straight nose. "Do tell, what has inspired such prolonged loyalty?"

"You wouldn't understand," she said. His steady gaze was making her feel exposed, as if he could see through to her beating heart. "You haven't been in a relationship."

"Granger, I've had relationships," he said. "Admittedly they haven't been long relationships, but there was a lot of _relating_." Then he smirked, and that in combination with his lingering gaze was enough to make Hermione flush.

"I don't need to hear about your previous amorous entanglements," she said, scowling and crossing her arms.

"No, you're right. We were talking about you. Or, more specifically, you and Weasley."

_Damn_. She'd fallen straight into that trap.

She sighed. "Ron and I weren't amorous-"

"I'm jolly glad to hear it."

"Let me finish. Ron and I weren't amorous at the end, but we were entangled. Our lives were very interwoven. Trying to unpick us would have been like unknotting a mess of yarn."

"Yes, yes. I've gathered you and Weasley were as tightly knitted as one of those godawful jumpers he wears. Get to the point."

"No, that's the point, we weren't tightly knitted; it was just our lives that were," she said. "Our work, friends, his family. I needed something that wasn't anything to do with Ron. So, I quit my job and started my bookshop. I even chose the name ' _Miss G's Emporium'_ to try and separate it from my relationships with Ron and Harry. Not that it worked," she muttered.

"How so?" he asked.

"I hadn't even had the shop open for a week before Ron started complaining I was spending all my time at work," Hermione expanded. "I'd chucked my nine-to-five job for self-employment, and he didn't understand that as my own boss I didn't keep to regular working times anymore. I wouldn't be at home when he got off from his shift, and I wouldn't be there to pick up after him."

"That must have been a shock," Draco said. "It seems to me that all you and Potter do is clean up after him."

"Ha, you don't know the half of it," Hermione continued. Like the tears that had welled up earlier, her supressed feelings and anger towards Ron were rising to the surface like boiling bubbles in a kettle. "It was like I was already a housewife. And then when he asked me to marry him in that boorish way, drunk and stumbling, I had a sudden thought: what if this is the rest of my life?"

"Ron and I arguing over my work, my desire for independence." Hermione gave an exasperated sigh and threw up her hands. "And forever our lives revolving around Quidditch, or the newest racing broom some company has sent for Harry to try out and not ever Ron. Merlin, it was so dull. In that moment I hated him." The instant she'd said it her hands flew to her mouth, as if she was trying to stuff the sentence back down her throat.

"I didn't mean that," she said from behind her hands. "I meant- I meant that I hated _it_. The situation I was in."

At the sound of Draco's snort Hermione's brows furrowed. "I know I'd certainly hate the prospect of being shackled to a ginger idiot for the rest of my life," Draco commented.

"Don't," she said.

He touched her arm. "Forgive me. What _I mean_ is that there is nothing wrong with having a life outside of your relationship."

"When did Draco Malfoy start giving out such sound relationship advice?"

He chuckled. "Trust me, this surprises me as much as it is surprises you. Perhaps it's you," he tucked her hand behind her ear and let his fingers outline the shell of her ear, "you're a corrupting influence on me."

Hermione ignored the seductive lilt of his voice. "We broke up because I was bored," she said. The anger felt like a bittersweet memory. "Isn't that a terrible reason? And the morning after we started our 'break'- even before I found out about Lavender- I realised I didn't miss him. I was sure I would miss him, but I sat in my apartment and just enjoyed the quiet."

"You broke up because you outgrew him," Draco said. The lines were back between his eyes, giving his features a serious edge.

"I don't think I did." She shook her head slightly. "Ron wanted a home and a marriage. It doesn't get more grown up than that."

"What Weasley wants is mothering, and that's not the same thing as a marriage." He looped his fingers into her hair. Tilting her head upwards he bent down, so his words whispered against her skin. "I can promise that in marrying me you won't ever be bored. And as far as mothering goes, that's the last thing I want you to do to me." He winked, and her knees did a weird wobble.

"Marrying you might drive me insane," she murmured.

"Darling, you're already a bit mad for me." He ran his tongue along his top teeth.

She gave a distracted cough. "Mad? I am beginning to think most certainly. But for you? Tut tut."

"I like you," he suddenly said.

She felt like he'd thrown those three words; the impact hit her body like a punch. The wind rushed out of her lungs and she gave a breathy gasp that she knew she'd regret later.

"Yes, yes," Draco said, pressing a finger to her cheek, "I know: 'You don't like me'. But to hell with it. Granger, I like you."

Hermione tried to give a casual laugh. "How gratifying to hear from my future husband."

"Ah, don't try and palm me off with your indifference," Draco said, leaning in. "You kissed me earlier, remember."

The skin on her chest prickled at the memory of their embrace. "You barely know me," she said.

"I've known you for over half your life."

"Being aware of my existence and knowing me are two different things."

"I'd like to know you better. I like what I know so far."

"Even after this evening?"  
"So you have a complex about your ex. I can hardly judge you on your baggage, given my own past."

"That didn't seem to be the case earlier?" she reminded.  
"Well, I was angry then." He briefly frowned. "I say stupid things."

"Is what you're saying now stupid?"

"No, not in the slightest." He drew one finger along her jawline. "You're beautiful, and I've never said anything more serious in my life."

Hermione tentatively touched his waist, then, growing bolder, ran her hand up to his chest. She could feel the strong beat of his heart, strong but fast. "If I asked you would give me everything?" she softly said.

"Merlin," he groaned. "Yes."

She wet her lips and looked at the piercing angles of his face. "Give it to me," she whispered. "Give me it all."

"You don't know what you're asking," he cautioned.

"I do," she insisted. She thought she did. But when she stared into Draco's hard eyes her stomach fluttered in warning. She gave a small nod, trying to add some conviction to her words.

Draco's eyes flashed, and his breath hissed. Then, with a stifled curse he bent his head and kissed her.

His lips were hard, and without waiting for an entrance he plundered her mouth. He sucked at her lower lip, taking her flesh with greedy bites. His hand was cupped at the back of her head, laced into her hair and anchoring her to him. The other hand worked down her body, brushing the expanse of her neck, lingering at the swell of her breasts before kneading her waist with surprising gentleness compared with the force of his kisses.

She tried to match his kisses, endeavoured to capture his lips in hers but Draco firmly dominated the kiss. His mouth slanting, taking her tongue and giving her thrills of pleasure. She ran a hand lovingly down the length of his torso, savouring each hard plane of his chest. Emboldened, she fingered the edge of his top before slipping a hand underneath and palming the jutting bones of Draco's hip.

He gave a low growl, before tearing his mouth from hers. Taking her hand, he dragged her to the bar. Taking a second to sweep the broken glass onto the floor, he ripped his jacket off and laid it down on the space he'd just cleared. Then he grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up, sitting her on the thick leather. He pushed her knees apart and settled himself between her legs. All she could see were his eyes, silver like winter frost. She felt frozen by his eyes, her body rooted to the spot and reliant on his hot hands to melt her.

She closed her eyes when he kissed her. Rough kisses. His hands forcefully taking her hips, pushing himself into the soft juncture of her thighs. Then he was running her hands across her back, before dipping back down to slide under her top. He played with the ridges of her spine, stilling their ascent when he met the clasp of her bra. For a second Hermione thought he was going to snap it open, but he only fingered it before lowering his hands to the side of her ribcage.

Her arms wrapped round his shoulders and bracing herself, she raised herself slightly off the bar. From her elevated position she could kiss and suck his top lip. He briefly bit her bottom lip in retaliation, before submitting to her. She scraped a nail across the back of his neck, and this little pain seemed to embolden Draco as he lifted his hands to cup her breasts over her bra. Hermione arched her back, pressing herself into Draco's palms. Her breasts felt heavy in his hands, her nipples straining against the fabric. _Oh, his thumb was so close, just a little closer…_

There was a cough, like someone clearing their throat; trying in the politest possible way to let the snogging couple know that they were there.

Hermione pulled her mouth away from Draco's with a pop and looked past his shoulder. Harry was standing in the bar's entrance, a strained smile quirking his lips.

"I see you two made up," Harry said.

"Harry?" she squeaked in surprise. She became very aware _where_ Draco's hands were and tried shrugging his hand out from under her top, but he stubbornly would not be moved.

Draco gave her a long-suffering look, before saying, "Your friends need to stop interrupting us."

"As I recall it was _your friend_ who interrupted us earlier," she reminded.

"Only because _your friend_ was being a prat. Or should I say, more of a prat than usual." Draco turned his head, so he could see Harry out of the corner of his eye. "Potter," Draco tersely greeted. "We're busy. Come back later. If not ever."

"Do you think you could possibly remove your hands from my best friend?" Harry said, raising his brows. "I don't particularly enjoy voyeurism, and I'm getting quite an eyeful."

"This is nothing," Draco dismissed. "Wait ten minutes if you want to get a real show."

"Draco!" Hermione hissed.

Draco watched the colour rise to her cheeks. "Alright," he said begrudgingly, and released her, lifting her off the bar and back onto solid ground. Then he swiftly righted her top – which had ridden up to expose the lace of her bra - before turning to face her best friend. "What do you want?"

"I came here to apologise," Harry said. Draco was so surprised by that answer that he didn't have time to get in a retort. "And to offer you a deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta sunshine katz


	16. The One With Broken Bottles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for the delay in this chapter. I’ve been slowly working on it all month, doing bits between work.  
> Updates will be sporadic, but they will happen! I intend to have the better part of this story completed for Christmas, so don’t despair.

“Can I tell you where to stick your deal?” Draco said to Harry with smug impatience. “Same place that you can stick your apology: where the sun doesn’t shine.”

            “I guess I deserve that,” Harry said, running a hand over the back of his head.

            “No,” Draco drawled, “am I dreaming? The great Harry Potter humbling me with an apology?”

            “Draco,” Hermione interjected, half-swatting, half-caressing his upper arm.

            Draco looked down at her, and Hermione saw his eyes visibly soften. “Alright,” he said, never taking his gaze off her. “If it is a dream, it’s a damn good one.”

            Hermione looked down, trying to supress a shy smile.

            “Please don’t start…showing affection to each other again,” Harry said, wincing at the cow eyes Hermione and Draco were making at each other.

            Hermione dragged her eyes off Malfoy to look at Harry. “Thank you for taking Ron away,” she said. “How is he?” Draco’s hand stilled on her waist.

            “Sleeping it off,” Harry said. “I’m sorry, as his friend, that this happened, and,” he paused, before rallying, “I formally apologise as his superior. Whether he is on duty or not, he should know better than to behave like a-”

            “A drunken tosser,” Draco interjected. He touched his hand to the slither of exposed skin above Hermione’s hip, gently smoothing her skin even as he scowled at Harry.

            Hermione matched Draco’s frown, but her mouth, which slanted downwards, still tingled from their kisses. _Or mauling_ , she admitted. If Harry hadn’t interrupted them, she wasn’t sure what would have happened. She knew where it was leading; what with Draco feeling her up and her practically trying to eat his face.

            “He came into _my_ bar; damaged my property; disrupted our evening,” Draco said, each statement punctuating the air like a needle stabbing through cotton. “He’s _your_ subordinate, Potter.”

            Harry briefly removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, I cannot tell you the trouble I’ve had from him this week,” he said.

            “I think Draco and I have a clue about that,” Hermione said pointedly, looking at the broken bottles and damaged furniture. 

            “Fair enough. But let me explain before you start on the lecture,” Harry said to her. He raised a mollifying hand, “A lecture, I’m aware, I deserve.” He walked over to the nearest table and righted it. “Pull up a chair.”

            “I hope you don’t expect me to offer you a drink,” Draco growled. His hand hadn’t left Hermione, and she could feel his fingers flexing.

            Harry laughed. “Just come and sit, Malfoy. You’ll be interested in what I have to say.” Harry’s smile was fixed but wide, webbing the corners of his eyes in fine lines, like the delicate patters of a spider’s web in morning frost. 

            Deciding for him, Hermione took Draco’s hand and led him over to the table. “Please, Draco,” she whispered as they walked, “he’s my best friend.”

            “Fine,” Draco muttered back. “Just for a bit,” he added, “but I don’t want to spend the rest of the night waxing lyrical with Potter.”

 

            “Go on then,” Draco tersely said to Harry, once they had sat on three of the relatively undamaged barstools, “get on with it.”

            Harry cocked his eyebrows at Hermione silently trying to convey a message, but Hermione only raised her own brows in reply. Harry might be her friend, but Draco was her fiancé; fake or not, she felt a loyalty towards him.

            She wasn’t sure when this loyalty had happened: possibly when his hand had tightened over hers when she’d gone to help Ron; maybe when he’d stopped arguing just to heal her cuts; or, perhaps when he’d surrendered to her kisses. It was give and take with him: like a game of tug and war that she wanted to lose just so he could pull her to him and hold her.

            “I understand you’re angry,” Harry started to say to Draco.

            “Angry doesn’t cover it, Potter,” Draco snapped back.

            “I would be too,” Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard Draco. “I am actually. Ron’s antics didn’t just interrupt your evening.”

            “Did he trash your place of work too?” Draco sarcastically replied.

            “No,” Harry said, then turned to address Hermione, “We - Gin and I - didn’t want to tell you this way, but I have to tell you.” He said that last bit quickly and giddily, as though he had just experienced his first rush of alcohol on a night out.

            “What’s happened?” Hermione said. “Ginny? Is she alright? Teddy?”

            “Everything’s fine,” Harry reassured. Then to her surprise he beamed, and for the first time that night the warmth flowed back into his green eyes. “She’s pregnant.”

            Hermione felt tears prick her eyes, and she let go of Draco’s hand to grasp Harry’s arm. “Oh Harry, this is wonderful! I am so happy for both of you.”

            “Congratulations, Potter,” Draco chimed in, sounding surprisingly sincere given the situation.

            “I know,” Harry said in disbelief. “I’m going to be a dad.”

            “When did you find out? How far along is she?” Hermione gabbled the questions.

            “Not very far, just enough to be sure. But I only found out today, this evening to be precise.”

            Realisation flooded through her. “Ginny had only just told you when you got my Patronus?”

            “Something like that,” Harry admitted.

            “I’m sorry that moment was ruined for you.”

            “It’s alright.” Harry’s smile faded. “I’m angrier on Ginny’s behalf. She’d been trying to tell me properly all week, but apparently my ‘thick head’ couldn’t grasp her subtle hints.”

            Draco rolled his eyes in agreement. “Women,” he commented under his breath.

            “Thank you, Draco,” Hermione clipped.

            “Not you love,” Draco smoothly replied, flicking her nose with one light touch, “you’re a simple wench.”

            Harry snorted as Hermione bristled and answered, “I don’t know which part I’m more insulted at: the ‘women’ or ‘simple wench’.”

            “How about neither?” Draco flippantly suggested, waggling his eyebrows. Hermione narrowed her eyes, fixing him with her infamous glare. “Now that wasn’t a subtle hint,” Draco said, slyly looking at Harry for confirmation. Harry wisely remained silent; he’d been married long enough to know better. 

            “We’ve barely had a moment alone,” Harry continued. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but every publication is splashed with both of your faces. Everything is about your wedding. I can’t escape this guy’s,” Harry pointed a finger at Draco, “smug grin wherever I go. Or wherever Ron goes.”

            “My face, while smug, is not justifiable provocation for what he’s done,” Draco said.

            “No,” Harry said, “but I’m trying to add some context to this evening.”

            “Funny,” Draco snapped, “because it sounds like you’re just trying to get Weasley out of trouble.”

            Harry drummed his fingers on the table top. “Trust me, the man ruined what was meant to be the best news of my life- he’s already in trouble.”

            “I can’t believe he did that to you and Ginny,” Hermione said. Under the table she felt Draco’s hand slide into hers, his fingers massaging the inside of her palm.

            “Ever since you got engaged, Hermione,” Harry said, “Ron’s been a mess. He’s been staying at mine the past few days. I’ve been trying to keep him from doing something…”

            “Reckless?” Hermione offered.

            “Idiotically Weasley-like?” Draco added.

            “Something like that,” Harry said. “But you know what Ron’s like: you think he’s all calm, then suddenly the numpty will pop up and make a scene!”

            “Numpty?” Draco gave her an inquiry look.

            “A stupid or ineffectual person,” Hermione explained. “Not unlike yourself on occasion, Draco.” They laughed at Draco’s wounded expression.

            “I resent the comparison, wench.” Draco grinned, and, out of Harry’s sight, pulled her hand onto his knee. She tried to pull back, but he held her hand more firmly to his denim clad leg. A small smile played around his lips. _His pink, bruised looking lips_ , Hermione realised. His hair, too, was looking less than perfect. Blond wisps framed his face, contrasting with the sardonic curve of those pale brows. He caught her looking at him, just a flick of his grey orbs and she could see the satisfaction in the developing dimple on his cheek.

 

            “Well,” Hermione said to Harry, dragging her eyes away from Draco’s profile, “I appreciate you for trying to keep Ron from doing something stupid. But the fact does remain that Ron, one of your Aurors, did come into a business and vandalise it.” Emboldened by the way Draco was squeezing her hand, she continued, “I don’t know if you are aware Harry, but Muggle alcohol cannot be magicked; in other words, Ron incurred property damage in the thousands.”

            “It can’t be magicked?” Harry said, a deep frown furrowing his brow.

            “Yes,” she confirmed. “Magic alcohol is imbued with magical properties in the brewing or fermentation process, properties that make it resistant to such damage as evaporation and expiration.”

            “But I’ve spilt butterbeer on myself loads of times!” Harry said.

            “Classy,” Draco quipped.

            “Oh, the customer spilling is a different matter. You’ve bought the alcohol then, and the brewery is no longer responsible. But this isn’t the case with Muggle alcohol. There are no magic safeguards, and once it’s gone it’s gone.”

            “When did you get so knowledgeable about booze?” Harry asked, his eyes alighting from Draco to her with alarming speed.

            “Err…well, you see I just was taking an interest in -” she stumbled. Draco was shaking with laugher and hidden from view his thumb was rubbing her hand with smooth long strokes.

            “I see,” Harry said, amusement clear in his voice.

            “There was a book!” Hermione squeaked.

            “Isn’t there always a book,” Draco said, giving Harry a conspiratorial look.

            “And how much does a bottle of Muggle whisky cost?” Harry asked.

            “Depends,” Draco interjected. “We stock a range of high to low prices. Some bottles can be about £30 in Muggle currency, but others are a bit more on the rare side. For instance, that bottle there,” Draco pointed to the shattered remains of a bottle a few feet from where they sat, “it’s a scotch from a limited casket run, there are only three bottles currently in circulation: a bar in Edinburgh, a hotel in central London, and here. Well, just two bottles now.” Draco ruefully chuckled, but it petered out to a sigh.

            Hermione’s hand was trapped under his, but she brushed her thumb across his knee. He placed his thumb over hers, encouraging her to repeat the strokes.

 

            “Okay,” Harry said, studying Draco, “give me a figure?”

            Draco rubbed his chin with his free hand. His grey eyes wandered to the ceiling, moving back and forth as he calculated. “With the property damage, the loss of revenue, and the ruined whisky stock I estimate just over half of Weasley’s annual salary.”

            “Merlin,” Harry muttered.

            “And that isn’t even considering how bad the publicity is going to be,” Draco added.       

            “What do you mean?” Hermione asked him.

            “My fiancée’s ex-boyfriend, a third of the Golden-Trio, and an Auror, coming into _the_ Draco Malfoy’s bar and causing a scene…I dread to think what kind of field day Rita Skeeter is going to have,” Draco elaborated. “This isn’t a case of any publicity is good publicity.”

            “What are we going to do?” Hermione asked Draco. Her eyes tracked his pale features, watching for any change. To her surprise Draco suddenly smiled.

            Turning towards her he said, “You know, I think I like you worrying about me.”

            “I thought you said I worry too much,” she reminded.

            He winked. “I’m a special case though.”

            “Bloody hell, can we stop with the goo-goo talk,” Harry moaned, glaring at the couple. “Enough time for that later. When,” he added curtly, “I’m well out of earshot.”

            Draco’s smile lingered for a few more seconds, before being replaced by his customary languorous expression. “What do you suggest then, Potter?” He flourished his hand in a bored gesture. “I can hardly pass this off to my insurance company as miscellaneous breakages.”

            “I know how to deal with the publicity,” Harry said. “And hopefully, _this_ should also solve the problem of the insurance claim.”

            “And what is this miraculous solution?” Draco demanded.

            Harry gave Hermione one quick glance before staring into Draco’s cool eyes. “Stag-do.”

 

            On paper Harry’s plan was simple: Draco Malfoy’s stag-do gone wrong. How could one not believe that if you put a Slytherin and two Gryffindors in a room that things wouldn’t get broken?

            “But I haven’t had a stag-do?” Draco pointed out to Harry, propping his chin on the heel of his hand in an Oscar Wilde imitation.

            “It’s a ruse, Malfoy,” Harry said, rolling his eyes at Hermione.

            “And…how do I put this?” Draco continued as if he hadn’t heard Harry. “If I did have a stag-do I can guarantee Weasley wouldn’t be invited.”

            “You do understand what a ruse is, right?” questioned Harry.

            “And I doubt Weasley would jump for joy at the idea of attending _my_ stag-do,” Draco drawled on.

            “It’s a deception, Malfoy, not real life!”

            “But this ploy must have some elements of truth.”

            “For the love of- Hermione, help me?” Harry implored the brunette.

            Hermione looked down, hiding her smile behind her hair. “Draco, behave.”

            “As my lady commands,” Draco said, curling the right side of his mouth.

            Harry sighed, the frown lines between his eyes deepening like the stroke of a pen on paper. “As I was saying. If Ron and I were at Malfoy’s stag-do-” but he was cut off once more.

            “I still cannot see anyone buying this. If I was going to have a stag-do I would expect a few more of my actual friends to be invited,” Draco announced.

            “I thought of that too,” said Harry.

            “Potter are you sure that is wise?”

            “What is?”

            “Thinking.”

            “Shut it,” Harry snapped. “Fine. You were having a quiet drink with Hermione’s friends, and then it went a bit out of hand. You’re going to have the big Slytherin stag-do tomorrow,” he checked his watch, “or should I say tonight.”

            “This is ridiculous,” said Draco, smoothing an errant strand of his hair.

            “So, we - you, Ron, and I - were having a drink,” Harry said.

            “And Zabini,” Draco added. “Seems fair to include him in the deception.”

            “And Zabini,” Harry reluctantly repeated. “We were chewing the fat, when it got a bit out of hand. Very out of hand.”

            “Too out of hand,” Draco pointed out.

            “How about you started playing Quidditch?” Hermione said, breaking the masculine diatribe like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. “The drinks brought up that old school rivalry.”

            “Now that I can believe,” Draco said, nudging Hermione convivially with his shoulder.

            “Brilliant,” agreed Harry.

             “A bit of two-on-two Quidditch,” she continued, “perhaps minus the brooms, but I’m sure drunken brains wouldn’t be thinking too logically.” Draco and Harry shared a look of indulgent exasperation. “And a drunk game of Quidditch would utterly account for the damage and satisfy the insurance claim!”

            “Hermione, when it comes to adding some credibility to a scheme you really are the best,” said Harry.

            “Only thing is,” Draco said, “I now have to organise a real stag-do.”

            “Were you not going to have one anyway?” Hermione asked.

            Draco chuckled, “God no. I did tell you about Goyle’s right? The one with the Goblin stripper?”

            “A what?” Harry exclaimed.

            “Please,” Draco said, “don’t make me repeat it.”

            “Or that dance,” Hermione muttered.

            “Malfoy, dancing? Do I want to know?” Harry asked, suspiciously looking at the couple.

            “I can show you if you like,” Draco said, “you should have seen Granger’s face when I performed it the first time.”

            “Okay,” Harry said, and quickly rose from his chair, “I think I’ve had enough for one night. I’m going home to my wife, and sanity.”

            Hermione stood up and hugged Harry hard, pressing her face close she whispered, “I can’t tell you how happy I am for you and Ginny. Tell her I’ll owl her tomorrow.”

            “I will,” Harry promised. Stepping back, he smiled at Malfoy; it wasn’t the friendliest of smiles but the amicable nod that Draco offered in return made Hermione’s chest tighten.

            “Potter,” Draco said, raising a hand in a parting wave, “I can trust you to put about our little ruse?”

            “Just another day’s work,” Harry said. “Night. I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow - never know what drama is going to turn up with you two.”

 

            “Alone at last,” Draco said to Hermione, once he’d seen Harry out. “You’re at my mercy.” He stalked towards her, easily side-stepping glass fragments and chair limbs.

            Hermione smiled, and stifled a yawn.

            Draco stopped in his tracks. “Ah I see the day’s events have caught up with my little Gryffindor lion.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and surveyed her tired eyes and mussed hair. “And I so wanted to hear her roar.”

            “Or snore,” she said, avoiding Draco’s suggestive jibe. “But I’m going to help you sort this place out before I go home.” She dug in her own pocket producing her wand. “ _Reparo_ ,” she said, sweeping the wand around the room. Shards of glass flew together, dents and scratches disappeared, and broken chairs mended. The empty bottles dotted the room, repaired where they had lain shattered.

            “At least I’ll be able to take an inventory of what we’ve lost,” Draco said, eyeing the glinting bottles. He raised his wand and pointed it at the stained floor. “ _Scourgify_.”

            Before she could move to start reordering the bar’s tables and chairs, Draco stopped Hermione by placing a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you but let me see you home.”

            She frowned, confused. “But there is still so much to do?”

            “And there still will be in the morning,” Draco said, firmly leading her towards the bar’s exit. “You forget, this is a bar. This place doesn’t have to be ready until the evening. Ah,” he lifted a finger to her lips, “I see you want to argue with me, but no. You are going home, and so am I.”

            “Well if you’re going home too,” she relented.

            “Have no fear,” Draco said, “I’m going to bed. Now all that has to be decided is whose bed?”

            She looked up into his sly eyes. “Not mine,” she primly said.

            “Very wise.” He sighed. “You’d probably end up seducing me and then I’d get no rest.”

            “I certainly would not.”

            “The bite mark on my chest would suggest otherwise.” She coloured, as Draco continued, “And the way you pushed me against that wall.”

            “Stop!”

            “You know,” Draco said, “your mouth is almost the same shade of red as your cheeks.”

            “Malfoy, stop being such an ass,” she blurted, covering her face with a hand.

            “Now Hermione, back on second name terms, are we? You knew what an awful fellow I was when you agreed to married me. I didn’t deceive you.”

            Hermione fumbled with the door handle. “I’m going home,” she announced, wrenching the door open. “Before I am tempted to become a widow before I’ve been wed.”

            Draco barked a laugh. “Very well, consider me warned,” he said, following her out into the night.

 

Later that morning, Hermione was suspicious when she awoke to find the birds singing, the sky blue and the sun shining. There were no owls, letters, angry ex-boyfriends, or current maddening fiancés, and the lack of any of these filled her with a feeling of impending dread.

            Ever since Draco had sauntered into her life, like a blond whirlwind with unlimited funds and a habit for introspection, she’d hadn’t had a moment of peace. She found herself alone on a Sunday morning, the day before her wedding with little to do before lunch time, and she hated it.

            Hermione gave her head a shake, upsetting curls from the demure position behind her ear and cascading them in front of her eyes. She began to imagine where she would be this time tomorrow; in the grounds of Malfoy Manor and about to get married. Or at least she’d thought she might be about to get married, but as she had no idea what Narcissa had organised, she didn’t know what time of day the ceremony would take place.

            She jumped when there was a light tapping at her window. She glared at the window, the view obscured by the beige curtains, but she could see a bobbing shadow and supressed a groan. Not more owls, she thought as she ripped the curtains back and hoisted the window open. But this morning it was just one owl, a handsome tawny which stared unobtrusively at her. In its beak it held letters and to its leg was tied an edition of _The Daily Prophet_. Even though the paper was folded, Hermione could make out her own face on the front page.

            She quickly untied the paper. Throwing the letters to the side, she spread the paper out on the table. The front page was occupied with the photograph of her and Draco, she was blinking and gnawing on her bottom lip, whereas Draco’s face was slanted downwards looking at her profile. From the blurry background she guessed the photo had been taken yesterday in Diagon Alley. Above was the thickly printed title: ‘Wedding Day Bliss or Blues?’.

            Clutching the thin sheets, Hermione sat down and read the article:

            _Trouble in paradise, or was it all a dream? On the eve of their wedding Miss Granger and her notorious fiancé, Draco Malfoy, are keeping with Muggle tradition and keeping to their respective residences. But given that is couple have so far broken every tradition in the wizarding world, would their strict adherences to the Muggle way of life really be a surprise?_

_From their picture-perfect proposal in Muggle London, to their decision to live on the other side of the wall (unheard of for a Malfoy), the incongruous pair have shocked us all. But is there a Muggle edge to their actions...?_

_Hermione Granger is well known for her friendship with Harry Potter, but she has been less well known as the owner of a bookstore, Miss G’s Emporium - the only fully Muggle shop in the whole of wizarding London. Until her recent engagement to Draco Malfoy, no one had heard of Miss Granger’s shop; however, as the crowds of people can attest, this shop is now a firm fixture in Diagon Alley._

_One customer told this paper there wasn’t one book left on the shelves at the end of the day. In record breaking sales for Miss Granger’s store, she will have managed to become a successful businesswoman and a wife in one week. A feat we shouldn’t perhaps be so surprised about, considering her title as ‘the brightest witch of her age’. But, maybe, instead of ‘brightest’ we should be saying the ‘canniest’ witch of her age?_

_Miss Granger’s fiancé, Draco Malfoy, has long been considered both the catch and the pariah of the marriage market. Rich, handsome, successful, with an oblique family history. Has Miss Granger made a shocking mistake by aligning herself with Mr Malfoy, or has she just made the social catch of the century?_

_We shall see on the morrow, during their lavish wedding at Mr Malfoy’s ancestral home, Malfoy Manor. Will this witch get Draco Malfoy down the aisle, or will she be left on the shelf?_

_To read what is in store for the hundreds of guests, turn to page 6._ _By Felicity Epski._

           

            Hermione lowered the paper, and firmly refolding it, shoved it away. _‘Canniest’, indeed? On the shelf, was she?_ She certainly didn’t feel that canny, neither had she looked it in that photograph, staring off into space like some ninny. For the first time in a long time, Hermione felt the weight of wizarding London, their judgemental eyes following her, even as she sat in the flat and opened her post. Is this what the next few years of her life were going to be like? Her name splashed over every paper, never able to escape her own confused expression and burdened with unanswerable questions.

            She reached for her post. The first was a letter from Harry, which caused her to smile. Harry informed her that Ron was closeted away under Ginny’s wrathful care, and that he’d be in touch. He’d obviously succeeded in covering up last night’s incident, as she was sure Ron’s escapade would be all over the paper otherwise.

            She rifled through the rest of the letters. A few bills, a questionnaire from _Flourish and Blotts_ , and a rather dogeared flyer for a new restaurant down the road. Her hands stilled when she saw the familiar handwriting on the letter. She hurriedly ripped the green seal and perused her fiancé’s message.

 

              _Granger,_

_As you have been so dull witted as to forgo mentioning your parents’ address to me, I am forced to subject myself to this plebeian method of correspondence. I shall expect an apology later. Much fondling will be required for this blatant disregard of manners._

_Yours,_

_Draco. aka. Light of your Life._

_P.S. The owl is awaiting your reply. Don’t dally, Granger._

 

Hermione looked up and sure enough the tawny owl was perched on her windowsill, it’s large yellow eyes stoically surveying her. She couldn’t supress a Cheshire grin, and she quickly penned a response.

 

            _Malfoy,_

_I shall do no such thing as fondle in way of an apology. You shall have to be content with coming to my flat for 1pm, and then we shall floo over together. I       presume that this is enough time to sort everything at_ The Silver Asp _?_

_Regards,_

_Hermione_

           

She paused, glancing over the note before dropping her quill and going to her bookshelves. Her fingers ran along the worn spines and stopped at an old paperback, which she wrestled out of the tightly packed shelf. Taking a sheet of parchment, she carefully wrapped the book and tied it with the spare string that had bound _The Daily Prophet_. 

            Taking up her quill once more she added a postscript to her note:

                        _P.S. The package is the promised wedding gift._

            Satisfied, she folded the letter and attached it, and the package, to the waiting owl.

 

1pm quickly rolled around. She’d taken special care in choosing her clothes for the visit to her parents. While her mother hadn’t been unkind on the phone the other evening, the news of her daughter’s sudden engagement had obviously distressed her. Hermione could only hope that her father had been able to exact his usual calming influence on her mother.

            Serene was how she would describe her father. His face wore a mild-mannered expression, topped with lightly greying brown hair, which, after many decades, was giving up the ghost and thinning. His preference for baggy cardigans and corduroy trousers fitted with his comfortable lifestyle on the outskirts of London. And like those worn jumpers, he’d grown into old age, a little worn about the elbows and fraying at the edges.

            There was a knock at her door. Hermione looked up at the clock and saw it was five minutes past the hour. Striding to the door she opened it and said, “You’re late.”

            Draco smirked and shrugged. “I do beg your pardon,” he said, “I was unavoidably detained.”

            “I will forgive you, just this once,” she replied with humour. “How was your morning?” she said as Draco followed her into the apartment.

            “Tolerable. The bar looked worse in the light of day. Don’t fuss yourself,” he said, predicting her apology, “Zabini and I settled the whole thing, and we’ll be open as usual tonight. Although not quite as usual,” he confessed, “as due to Potter’s hare-brained scheme I’m having to hire out my own bar for this impromptu stag-do. Do you know how difficult it is finding decent leprechaun strippers at such late notice?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “I’ve put Zabini on the task,” Draco continued, “I would have asked Goyle but considering how dumb-witted he is I doubted he could handle hiring leprechauns. You know what a greedy idiot he is, the leprechauns would have fobbed him off with their magic gold and Goyle would have probably found himself stripping. What is the matter?” Draco broke his dialogue to stare at her. “Why are you looking at me like a fish, and waving your arms about in that very unattractive way?”

            Hermione lowered her arms. “Because I was trying to get your attention, and it’s so difficult when you get going.”

            “It would have been easy to stop me, my dear. You only had to use your imagination.”

            “My imagination is filled up with stripping leprechauns, thank you very much.” She folded her arms and fixed him with a dark glare. “Why are you hiring leprechauns? If my memory is correct, leprechauns don’t distinguish between male and female in appearance. So, you are essentially hiring a bunch of small, bearded men to take their clothes off for you?”

            “I am aware of this, yes,” Draco said with maddening civility.

            “Are wizarding strippers out of fashion then?” she tartly asked.

            He raised an eyebrow. “Stripping is not a racial discipline. Anyone has a right to take their clothes off for money if they choose.”

            “I can’t believe I’m arguing with you on the equality of strippers.”

            “May I remind you that you were the one to pose the issue?”

            “Why do you even have to have a stripper?”

            “I can hardly have a boozed-up stag party without a stripper, dear. It would be the height of bad manners for my guests. Enough,” Draco took her arm and pulled her towards her fireplace, “enough my love, before you say something utterly unforgivable.”

            “You are intolerable,” she precisely scolded.

            “Yes, yes,” he dismissed, handing her the pot on top of the fireplace that held the Floo powder. “Thank Merlin you’re marrying me, who else could endure me for long periods of time.” 

 

After her parents had re-established themselves in Hampstead, Hermione had linked their fireplace on a private Floo network. As she didn’t own a car, had a distinct aversion to flying and didn’t want to alarm her parents further by apparating suddenly into their front room, the Floo seemed the most fitting course of action.

            She and Draco stepped out of the Grangers’ fire ten minutes late and were met by the intimidating stare of Mrs Granger’s dark eyes, sharp and exacting under a squarely cut fringe.

            “Hello mum,” Hermione greeted, readjusting her shoulder bag and tugging on the sleeve of her pink top. “Sorry we’re late. Where’s dad? Oh,” Draco stepped out of the fireplace behind her. “Oh, this is Draco, my fiancé.” She lightly touched Draco’s arm, but he was already striding towards Mrs Granger, armed with a smile and…a large bouquet of flowers.

            “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” Draco cordially said, handing the flowers to Mrs Granger.

            “Very pleased to meet you,” Mrs Granger replied. Her icy expression seemed to have been somewhat mollified by the flowers. “Dad’s in the kitchen, slaving over a chicken,” she said to her daughter. “Shall we go on through?”

            “Where did you get those?” Hermione whispered to Draco as they followed her mother.

            “By magic.” He smirked. “What? I could hardly turn up empty handed.” His eyes twinkled.

            Hermione sighed, and tucked her hand under the crook of his arm. “Try not to flirt with my mother.”

            Draco looked thoughtful, before asking, “What about your father?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my amazing beta sunshine katz.  
> Thank you for all the encouragement- next chapter will have more steaminess.


	17. The One With Naked Tennis

 

“So, Draco,” Mrs Granger said through pursed lips. “How does your family feel about your upcoming nuptials?” She lowered her cutlery and surveyed Hermione and Draco’s identical expressions of panic.

            Draco shot Hermione a look, before fixing a smile to his face. “To tell you the truth, they were surprised when we broke the news,” he said. He didn’t break eye contact with Mrs Granger as he speared a carrot on his fork.

            “I can understand their feelings,” Mrs Granger continued, “we were also greatly ‘surprised’ when our daughter announced her marriage over the phone.” Canadian winters held less frost than her words.

            Mr Granger gave a quiet chuckle. “That’s our girl,” he said, glancing at his wife, “likes to surprise us. Would you like some more roast potatoes, Draco?”

            “Why, yes,” Draco said, passing his plate to him. “Fantastic potatoes, if that’s not too odd a compliment.”

             “It’s the olive oil,” Mr Granger said. “Douse the blighters in it and they’ll come up a treat.”

            Hermione grasped her water glass and smiled behind it.

            Draco and her father had certainly struck up a quick camaraderie. Her dad was like that; he had an easy friendliness, and a quietness of manner which encouraged conversation. Place him in a room full of strangers and within half-an-hour he’d already be getting invitations to visit houses, or go down to the pub, or once, a fishing trip at some Lord’s stately home.

            Now, watching Draco and her dad, it struck Hermione how alike they were; Draco with his offhand sincerity, and her father with his openhanded kindness. Then again, while her father’s conversation was like a familiar jumper, baggy and slightly worn at the elbows, talking to Draco was similar to being on a TV quiz show. Exciting and exhilarating, but it made your knees wobble with nerves. She guessed the only difference was that instead of playing for a million pounds, you were actually being played by a millionaire.

            She recalled when the three of them had laid the table for lunch, her dad had offered to Draco the customary, “Call me Mark.”

            Hermione could have choked when Draco instantly replied, “Thank you, Mark. And please, call me Judith.”

            Her dad and Draco might be chummy, but her mother and Draco were getting on like a house on fire. A blazing, roaring, singe your eyebrows off kind of house fire.

            Dad might be Mark, but her mother was still firmly Mrs Granger: Ma’am might have been more appropriate. 

 

            “Getting back to this wedding,” Mrs Granger said to Draco. “How did your parents react when they realised _you_ were marrying Hermione.”

            “Mum,” Hermione murmured in warning.

            “My mother was delighted,” Draco replied. Hermione considered that ‘delighted’ was a stretch. Then again, compared to Lucius’s reaction it wasn’t such an untruthful description.

            “And your father?” Mrs Granger pressed.

            Draco pulled at the knot of his tie. “Less so.”

            If Hermione hadn’t been placed in the middle of this fraught exchange, she would have enjoyed Draco’s obvious discomfort. His looks and charm usually spared him from experiencing female ire. But all through lunch Draco’s expression had been growing tenser and his answers shorter. It was like being a spectator to a fencing match. Mrs Granger on the offensive with sharp questions, and Draco desperately trying to parry with compliments and flattery.

            “ _Less so_ ,” Mrs Granger repeated, before delivering the final blow. “That’s funny, considering your family tried to kill her.”

            “Mum!”

            “Jane!” Mark interjected.

            “What?” Jane snapped. “It’s true. And the only reason his parents aren’t locked up in that wizard prison is because of a technicality.”

            “Jane, this really isn’t the moment for this,” Mark quietly said.

            “Then when?” Jane said. “She’s getting married tomorrow. Tomorrow.” She broke ‘tomorrow’ up into three syllables, her eyes flashing as she finished the ‘row’. “Why do you have to marry him?” she said to Hermione. “You’re an attractive, intelligent woman, Hermione, but you have terrible taste in boyfriends. _This_ fiancé’s family has wished you dead, and your last fiancé was a prime dunderhead. Go find a nice, normal boy, without a questionable past or a questionable brain.”

            “I do not have terrible taste in men!” Hermione shot back.

            “From that speech,” Draco dryly commented, “that’s what you’re going to concentrate on?”

            “Unless you’ve been keeping more secret boyfriends?” Jane snapped. “Then yes, you do have terrible taste.”

            “I do not have secret boyfriends,” Hermione huffed.

            “Well…” Draco pointed to himself. But the smile on his face died when both Granger women glared at him.

            “Best not to interrupt,” Mark advised Draco. “Yet.”

            “Viktor!” Hermione said, like she’d struck gold. “Viktor Krum was a nice boy.”

            Jane rolled her eyes. “You mean the thick-headed wizard who couldn’t pronounce your name properly?”

            “That was his accent!”

            “He made your name sound like a type of congenital illness.”

            “Fine.” Hermione turned to Draco. “You can pronounce my name properly, can’t you?” the question was brandished like a weapon. “That’s all that’s needed to meet my mother’s high standards.”

            Draco gave Mark a sideways glance. “Err…yes I can,” Draco hesitantly said. “At least, I always thought I’ve been saying it correctly.”

            “See,” Hermione said with mirth. “Draco can pronounce my name, and he isn’t a ‘dunderhead’.”

            “No, instead, his family tried to kill you,” Jane said, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Just what I want in a son-in-law.”

            “Oh my-” Hermione started to exclaim but Draco cut her off.

            “Technically,” Draco said, “it was my aunt who tried to kill her. So, really my extended family.” He idly smoothed his napkin. “And who really counts them as family?”

            “Valid point,” Mark said, nodding approvingly at Draco. “I know I don’t count Jane’s sister as fam-”

            “Not one word about my sister,” Jane said, practically hissing the words at her husband. She turned back to her daughter. “I’m worried about you,” she said, her eyes bright under her sharply cut fringe.

            Draco dropped his neatly folded napkin onto his empty plate. “If it helps, my aunt killed loads of people. She killed my second cousin, and there was a back-and-forth debate on whether she would murder her sister. I believe the Muggle way of describing her would be ‘trigger-happy’?”

            Jane’s mouth fell open, and she blinked a few times at Draco’s serene smile.

            “To be honest, if I were you,” Draco said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I’d be more concerned with the levels of inbreeding in my family, rather than any murderous tendencies.” As if to accentuate his point, he picked up Hermione’s placid hand and laced their fingers together. “Is there any pudding?” Draco asked Mark, benignly.

            “Pudding?” Mark dumbly repeated. “Oh, yes, pudding. We’re having apple pie.”

            “Excellent,” Draco said. “I’ll come and help you plate up. Or is it dish up? I’m never quite sure.” He let go of Hermione’s hand, and mildly said, “This might be a good time to give your mother that candle, Hermione. You know, the one smelling of sentiment.” He followed her father out of the dining room.

            “Right. The candle.” Hermione said, and reached for her bag. Her arm went up to the elbow, searching the depths of the magically enlarged bag. “I took Draco to John Lewis. We went to buy our furniture there,” Hermione rambled to her mother. “I remembered Christmas, or how Christmas used to be, and,” her fingers found the rim of the glass bowl, “I got you this.” She heaved the candle out and set it on the table. “To me, this is the smell of Christmas.” She gently pushed the candle across the table and towards her mother.

            Jane’s hand brushed Hermione’s as she took the candle. Bringing it up to her nose she sniffed. “Orange, and spice,” Jane said.

            “And all things nice,” Hermione finished. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Draco sooner.” Not that there had been anything to tell before a few days ago, but there was no need to give her mother a heart attack.

            Jane watched Hermione over the candle’s rim. “Are you sure you want to get married so fast?” she softly asked.

            “Yes,” the answer fell off her lips, and she was glad her answer seemed confident rather than automatic.

            “Okay,” Jane said. “He’ll do for the moment.”

            Hermione laughed. “Thank you.”

            Jane frowned slightly. “But wizards can get divorced?”

            “Mum.” Hermione laughed again. “Yes, we can get divorced.”

            “Good. I don’t want you to be leg shackled for life if you don’t want to be.” Jane put down the candle and took Hermione’s outstretched fingers. “I just want you to be happy.”

            “I am happy, mum,” Hermione said, and, weirdly, she meant it. At this precise moment in time, Hermione Jean Granger felt happy. Her mother was smiling at her in a way she hadn’t done in years; a small smile, a secret smile known only between them. She squeezed her mum’s hand. “But please,” Hermione said, suppressing a grin, “stop reminding everyone about his family’s past.”

            Jane sat back in her chair and sighed. “Alright,” she said. “I won’t mention the murdering aunt again. But,” Hermione’s smile faltered, as her mother continued, “we haven’t even started on the years of bigotry and bullying.”

            Hermione might have felt sorry for Draco. Might. But at that moment Draco and her dad re-entered the room, laden with bowls, spoons, cream, and a steaming pie.

            “Grab the cream from me, dear,” Mark said to Hermione, balancing the hot pie on his oven-gloves.

            “Don’t let Hermione handle food or liquids,” Draco said, taking the cream from Mark. “She either throws it at you or spits it in your face.”

            “What?” Jane exclaimed.

            “Did she not tell you?” Draco said, a wicked glint in his eye. “When I proposed to her, she spat her drink at me. Not to mention what she did to my father…”

 

            “Did you really have to throw the cream at me?” Draco moaned at Hermione. He leant against her parents’ kitchen counter, wiping cream from his shirt front.

            “I didn’t mean to,” Hermione said. She was standing to the side of Draco, dabbing a damp cloth over his cheek. Another droplet of cream trickled down from his hairline. She brought the cloth up again, working up his face and into his hair. _His hair._ Thank Merlin he hadn’t seen his reflection. His hair was matted with thick globules of cream, plastering it to his skull like white hair gel.

            Draco cocked a cream-covered eyebrow at her. “How did you expect throwing a pot of cream at me to go?”

            “I presumed you’d duck,” she confessed.

            “I may have mad Quidditch skills, but not even I can avoid half-a-litre of cream when it’s unexpectedly thrown over me,” he commented.

            “I’m sorry.” She bit her lip. “I was just trying to prove a point.”

            “What? That you deal with confrontation in the same way a three-year-old would? Through the medium of food?”

            She dropped her eyes to the sink, filled with milky water. “It’s your fault really.”

            “Pray, how?” he retorted.

            “You shouldn’t have told them about ‘the meatball incident’.”

            “It’s funny.”

            “For you. I just wanted you to stop talking about your father’s hair.”

            “And so, you decided to show me up through a repeat performance?”

            Her cheeks flushed. _When he put it like that, it did seem a little foolish._ “I can’t help it if both you and your father elicit the same reaction from me,” Hermione said, tilting her chin and staring haughtily into Draco’s eyes.

            He snorted at her, before saying, “As long as that’s the only reaction I share with him.”

            “What do you mean- Oh!”

            He smirked and watched her through heavy lidded eyes. He was performing his best smoulder, but the effect was ruined when a drop of cream fell from his nose and onto the kitchen floor. He glanced down and winced at the little puddle of milk that surrounded his feet. “Enough with the Muggle way,” he said, cream wrinkling his frown. “Just magic me clean, will you?”

            “Do it yourself,” Hermione said.

            “I can’t,” he said, “I left my wand in my jacket, which is currently with your mother being cleaned. Or as best as someone can clean milk stains out of a cashmere blend,” he darkly muttered.

            With a minimal grumble she pulled her wand out from her pocket. “Why didn’t you tell her you’d clean it up with magic?” she asked.

            “It was the first nice thing she’s done for me, I wasn’t going to reject her offer.”

            “That was kind of you.”

            “I know it was,” he dryly said. “One good thing is that your parents were so shocked at your behaviour that I look like a virtual saint. If you go on like this, everyone will soon be wondering why I married you, and not the other way around.”

            “No one is ever going to stop asking why I agreed to marry you,” she said, and, flicking her wand at him, she performed a cleaning charm.

            “Clean at last,” Draco said, and touched his hair reverentially. As his sleeve passed his face, he sniffed. “I still smell of milk,” he moaned.

            “You’re just imagining things,” Hermione said, dismissively.

            “I really do, Granger,” Draco protested, and shoved his arm under her nose. “Smell.”

            She sighed and gave a small sniff. “Nothing but your usual odour.” She was lying; there was totally a lingering whiff of milk.

            Draco looked suspicious, but he lowered his arm. “If you’re lying, Granger, you and I are going to have words.”

            “Ah, I see that Draco is all cleaned up,” Jane said as she waltzed into the kitchen. “Really Hermione, I didn’t know what to say when you attacked him with that cream.”

            Draco barked a laugh.

            “I did not attack him!” shouted Hermione. _How could her mum be criticising her after all those comments about his family? True comments, but entirely unnecessary_.

            “Thank you for your concern,” Draco said. His face had gone red and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

            “I hope you choke on your laughter,” Hermione whispered to him. But it only made him laugh more.

            “Now we can get on with what I planned for the afternoon. Before Hermione’s silliness,” Jane announced. She looked like she was about to clap her hands.

            “Which is?” Hermione asked, suspiciously.

            “Tennis,” said Mark, as he joined his wife by the kitchen door. While Hermione had been talking to Draco, her dad had changed into his tennis whites: a polo shirt, a pair of too short shorts, and a flannel headband. Mark twanged the strings of his racket like a guitar. “Your mother and I haven’t played doubles in ages. Ready to see how my soon-to-be son-in-law handles his balls.”

            _Oh God, no._

            “Mum, Dad, Draco doesn’t want to play tennis,” Hermione loudly implored.  She had to speak loudly because at her dad’s last comment Draco had started laughing again. He slapped his hand on the countertop, trying to catch his breath between gasping laughs.

            “I’d…love…to show you,” Draco said, wheezing.

            “Perfect,” Jane said, and they turned to leave. “We’ll meet you in the car.”

           

            Draco hit the counter again, before straightening up. His face was red, his eyes streaming, and his hair flopped over his face.

            “Balls,” he heaved out. “Merlin, Granger. Your parents are hilarious.”

            “Shut up,” said Hermione. “And stop laughing.”

            Draco wiped his face. “What is tennis, anyway?”

            “A type of sport.”

            “Just that? Should be easy then. How’s it played?”

            Hermione folded her arms. “You hit a ball across a net with a racquet.”

            “Is that all?” Draco gave a derisive laugh. “These Muggle sports are so simple compared to Quidditch. No wonder you struggle with Quidditch and flying as much as you do,” Draco continued, “if the hardest sport you played growing up was hitting a ball.”

            “It’s more complicated than that,” she said, faintly.

            “Compared to Quidditch?” Draco scoffed. “I’ll be able to master this tennis in a matter of minutes.”

            Hermione mutely raised her eyebrows. He hadn’t grown up in a house where the Wimbledon finals were regarded with the same reverence as a royal coronation. Since she was old enough to hold a racquet, Hermione had been paraded out onto the tennis court and been forced to learn the ‘greatest game’. She’d had numerous black eyes, sprained her wrist, and had more scraped knees than you could shake a racquet at. But it had been a severe disappointment when her parents had realised that she was not going to become the next Martina Navratilova. ‘Her aim is true,’ the tennis coach had said, ‘but she has less swing than a high-school brass band’. Hermione had been grateful to retire from the sport a year before she went to Hogwarts, but every so often her parents would force her out onto that dreaded black asphalt.

            Draco snapped his fingers in front of her eyes. “Just watch me, Granger. I’ll be able to teach you a thing or two.”

            Hermione had not undergone years of torturous training to have a jumped-up Malfoy talk down to her about tennis. “It’s played naked,” she said, and casually picked up her bag.

            “Huh?”

            She cleared her throat. “Tennis is a nude sport.”

            His mouth curled up. “So, you’ll be naked?”

            “No,” she hastily corrected, “just the men play nude,”

            “That’s a shame. Although, it’s for the best. The sight of you might have put me off my game for a minute,” Draco said, distractedly. “What an odd custom. I’ve never heard of nude Muggle sports before. Is it common?”

            “Oh yes,” Hermione said as she walked out the door. “That’s why they call them ball sports.”

 

The drive to her parents’ country club was significantly more pleasant than lunch. While Draco wasn’t flirting with her dad, he hadn’t made an exception for her mum. Her mum - her precise and aggravating mum, who had been insulting Draco only a few minutes earlier - was now giggling, like a school-girl with a crush.

            _No child should have to hear their mother giggle_.

            Hermione was relieved when they arrived at the club, the car spitting gravel as they drove up the long winding drive. Manicured fields, bowls lawns, and several tennis courts surrounded the large red-brick manor. It looked like a school, but instead of children playing, tanned and grey-haired adults dotted the green lawns and could be seen in the distance arthritically hitting balls with raquets, clubs and bats.

            When they entered the club reception, they were greeted by smiling staff in matching polyester uniforms. Taking a proffered towel, Hermione followed her mum into the ladies changing rooms. She spared Draco one glance, but he was absorbed in conversation with her dad.

            Draco’s smile was wide, and his grey eyes glittered as he laughed. He looked carefree and young, his shirt was rolled up exposing his pale forearms and the tie hung loose around his neck. He seemed right at home, like he’d been coming to this Muggle club since birth. Apart from IKEA, Hermione couldn’t recall a time that Draco hadn’t seemed to belong. He took over a room; the sound of his voice filtered over a crowd, his blond hair was easily discernible over a sea of black and brown, and his chuckle could reverberate off walls. Hermione turned away and entered the changing room. Draco would be just fine.

            How wrong she was.

 

                                                            ~~~

 

            Ten minutes later, Hermione left the changing room. She’d transformed her clothes into a plain set of tennis whites and told her mum to go on ahead while she worked out the best way to conjure a tennis racquet. In the end, she made one by transforming a broom handle and a comb into a replica of her mother’s _Nike_ raquet. She swung her new racquet in her hand, her fingers flexing on the handle as she practiced the proper grips for back and front hand.

            She was crossing the lobby, towards the screen doors which led out onto the courts, when she heard someone whisper her name.

            “Hermione.”

            She turned, looking around to see if she recognised a familiar face. No one was in sight.

            “Hermione, look left,” the voice hissed again.

            She swung her head, but all she could see was the door to the men’s changing room. Suddenly, the door jerked and cracked open. Draco’s head popped out between the gap. He did not look happy.

            “Hermione,” he said again. “Come here.”

            She bridled a little, at the angry tone of his voice, but she complied and walked towards the door. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Draco looked a little frazzled. Gone were the easy lines of his face, to be replaced by a tense and annoyed expression. An expression he was pointing directly at her.

            “Come here.” He slipped his hand out and beckoned her forward.

            She glanced up at the door, which had a large letter M on it. “I can’t,” she said. “This is the men’s room.”

            Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m aware. Still.” He grabbed her arm and quick as a flash pulled her into the changing room.

 

            The men’s changing room looked the same as the ladies except for the smell, which was a mixture of sweat, feet, and for some reason cheesy puffs. Hermione tried to yank her arm out of Draco’s grip, but he held her firm. He side-stepped them through the thankfully deserted locker-room and into a section which contained private dressing rooms. Draco pushed her into an unoccupied stall, followed her in, and locked the door.

            “Draco, what are you playing at?” Hermione said. Her eyes moved from his face, over his bare shoulders, down his nude chest, then down further… “And why are you nearly naked?” she squeakily asked.

            Draco scowled. “Because my fiancée decided to play a joke on me.” Hermione was trying to stop her eyes from lowering, she really did. But before she found herself looking at the front of Draco’s tight boxer shorts. He’d opted for a light blue pair today. The colour reminded her of his eyes. Particularly the colour of his eyes right now: frosty blue, with streaks of silver, and like he wanted to murder her.

            “Naked tennis,” Draco shouted. “Naked tennis! I should have known something was up when all the other men were getting _into_ clothes, rather than _out_ of clothes! I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on your father’s face when I asked him why he wasn’t naked too.”

            Hermione tried to hide her smile by sucking her lips into her mouth.

            “And then do you know what he said?” Draco asked her.

            She shook her head, her curls dancing playfully around her face.

            “He said, ‘It’s not that type of ball play, Draco’. If I was more self-conscious, I might have died right then and there. Thank Merlin I’m a shameless bastard.” He rounded on her. “This is all your doing.”

            Her lips made a smacking sound as she released them. “I didn’t think you’d take me seriously,” she said, sweetly.

            He threw her a filthy look. “Trust me, I won’t be making the same mistake twice.”

            “If the only reason you dragged me in here was to yell at me, then I think I’ll be going.” She laid her hand on the lock.

            “Oh no you don’t.” He pushed her hand off the lock. “You have to help me. I don’t have any of these ‘tennis’ clothes.”

            Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re a wizard,” she prompted, “just transfigure your other clothes. That’s what I did.”

            “I can’t,” he said between gritted teeth. “I had an…accident.” Hermione involuntarily looked down. “Not there!” he cried. “A different type of accident. Merlin, I haven’t had _that_ type of accident since Hogw-”

            “I don’t want to know,” she said, holding up her hand to halt him.

            “That’s a shame.” He smirked. “The story does include you.”

            “What do you mean includes me?”

            “But I do see your point,” he dismissed, still grinning. “This probably isn’t the best time to recount that tale.”

            Hermione blinked at him, wondering to herself how in the world she’d wound up standing in a men’s changing room with Draco Malfoy in only his underwear and a smile.“Alright,” she said, slowly, “what _has_ happened? And can I have the explanation with the minimal amount of suggestive comments?”

            “I’ll try, but it will be quite hard.”

            “Try harder.”

            “If you wish.” He stepped towards her, artfully invading her personal space.

            “Oh my-”

            “Do you know how much I want to kiss you right now?”

            His confession caught her so unawares that all she could do was stammer a protest, “But-but you can’t.”

            “Why not?” He took a step closer.

            “Because…because,” she stammered. “Because you were going to explain where your clothes are, why you can’t transfigure them into polo whites, and why you have manhandled me into the men’s changing room.”

            “I haven’t manhandled you,” he said, grazing his fingers across her cheekbone.

            “I beg to differ. You are a man, and you have handled me. Therefore, you’ve manhandled me.”

            “That is some ridiculous logic.”

            “Says the person in their underwear.” She looked down again, but he was so close all she could see was the hard lines of his chest. His naked, glorious chest. Her mind flashed back to the last time she’d seen that chest; less than 24 hours ago, on her sofa, when they’d been making out. The blush crept traitorously up her cheeks. 

            “Fine, fine,” Draco said. He playfully tugged on her curls. “I’ll be serious, but just for a minute. I was changing, and I was putting my clothes into those tiny numbered lockers. But when I had the whole, ‘Mark, why aren’t you naked?’ fiasco, I got distracted and forgot which number my locker was. And before you say, ‘Oh Draco, but why didn’t you use a simple summoning charm’,” he said in a squeaky impression of Hermione. “I will remind you that my wand is still in my jacket pocket at your parents’ house. And this is why you have to help me. I need some clothes, a racquet, and some semblance of my dignity back.”     

            She snorted at that. “I’m glad you think it’s funny, Granger,” said Draco. “So far, my interactions with your parents have been a shamble. Between your mother’s obvious hostility towards me, to you covering me in cream, and now, me propositioning your father. It’s more than my delicate Malfoy disposition can take!”

            Hermione gave a whoop. Her body shook with giggles, and she leant on the nearest available surface to catch her breath, which happened to be Draco’s naked chest. “I only left you alone for ten minutes,” she said, between laughs.

            “A lot can happen in ten minutes. Or even in a minute,” Draco said. His deep voice reverberated in his chest, and she felt the vibration against her cheek. “For instance,” he continued, idly running his hands up her arms, “in one-minute’s time you won’t be laughing, and you’ll be screaming my name.” He purred the last words, sending a shock of awareness through her. His hands cupped her shoulders and pushed her off his chest, so her brown eyes were gazing up into his face. His smirking face.

            His lips were cool and smooth on hers, and he coaxed a little sigh from her mouth. The laughter which had been bubbling in her stomach turned to bubbles of excitement as Draco smoothed his hands down her back. She opened her mouth, deepening the kiss, and Draco responded in kind, tangling her mouth with his. It was like a dance; she didn’t know the music, but she knew the steps instinctively. One of his hands was playing with the waistband of her skirt, and the other running up and down the outside of her thigh. A tendril of heat curled up her body. His hands were frantic now, almost like he was searching for something; touching up and down the sides of her body. Then, suddenly, his hands stilled.

            Draco broke the kiss with a pop. Hermione opened her eyes, dazzled and a little confused at why he’d stopped. She watched as his mouth thinned, that soft pout turned to a curling smile.

            “And that, my dear Granger, was the art of misdirection,” he said, and waved her captured wand.

            Hermione looked from her wand, to Draco, then back to her wand. She briefly touched the side of her hip, where her wand had been securely tucked into the waistband of her skirt. It was gone, locked in the grasping, thieving, dishonest hands of Draco Malfoy. He’d been kissing her, touching her, all with the intension of distracting her while he picked her pocket.

            “MALFOY!”

            “I did say you’d be screaming my name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers, your kudos and comments keep me going. The next chapter will be up much quicker than the last.
> 
> And as ever, thank you to sunshine katz.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter


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